The witches arrived at Coris's cottage in less than an hour. Before Mnou knocked, she reminded her apprentice of a few things she had already explained on the way—but it never hurts to repeat, she thought.
"Mr. Coris is very kind, but he's quite old now, so he can't hear very well, and he is a bit forgetful. We'll just bring him some food and tidy up a little. I want you to meet him so that you—"
"Yes, you've already said," Esme interrupted. "So that I can come here on my own, even without you."
When did she become so cheeky?! Mnou fumed silently. She didn't even get a chance to scold her properly, because, quite surprisingly, the door opened swiftly, and an old man stood there.
He was barely taller than Esme, with a back as hunched as a wagon wheel. He wore sideburns—one side messy, the other slicked back. His hooked nose jutted out almost over his lips. Though his appearance might seem a bit eerie, his face was relaxed and kind, despite the deep wrinkles furrowing it like plowed fields.
"Who are you?" he mumbled, leaning on his tiny walking stick.
"It's me, Mnou, Mr. Coris," the witch explained patiently, pushing her hat up so he could clearly see her face.
"Mnou, Mnou…" the old man murmured, rolling the name around like wine on his tongue. Then he said, "Don't know anyone by that name."
Mnou sighed and stepped closer. "Mnou. Remember? I come by sometimes and tidy up. You used to visit me too. Do you recall that autumn evening when you came to my house with an apple pie?"
"Oh yes, Mnou," the old man finally remembered, his eyes lighting up with recognition. "You should have said right away it was you."
"A bit forgetful, huh?" Esme whispered under her breath, just loud enough for the woman beside her to hear. Mnou frowned and subtly nudged her with her elbow.
"And who's this little lady? Your daughter? I didn't know you had one. Did you get married?"
"No, no, nothing like that," the witch blushed and waved her hands frantically. "This is my apprentice, Esme. She's only been living here a few weeks."
"Ah, an apprentice. That's lovely. I'm glad to hear you're no longer living alone. You know, some nights before I go to bed, I felt like coming to check on you. Loneliness can stir up sad thoughts, and I worried you might… want to hurt yourself again. You know how solitude can affect a person."
"Don't you dare go wandering through the hills at night to visit people!" Mnou snapped.
Esme noticed the tremor in her mentor's voice. She looked at her curiously, but Mnou brushed it off with a gesture and quickly ushered the old man inside.
Mnou handed Coris a sack of preserves and a piece of pumpkin pie she had baked the previous evening. He accepted it with a toothless grin of delight.
"I'll go chop some wood for you, and you tidy up in here, all right, Esme?" Mnou didn't wait for a response and headed straight to the backyard, even though it had started to drizzle. A cold wind blew in through the open door, carrying the damp scent of approaching rain. Esme welcomed it—it cut through the musty and smoky odor of the cottage like a blade through fabric.
She opened a window with a spell, letting the dust out. Then she straightened the chairs and cleaned the tablecloth, which had a wilted flower in a vase on top of it. It looked like a forget-me-not, but its bright blue and fresh green had long faded. Now it seemed lonely and dead. The little witch stared at it for a long time, feeling oddly sad about the shrivelled flower. In fact, the whole worn-out cottage felt melancholic. The old man, however, oddly didn't match it. Despite his frail and withered appearance, there was a warmth about him. He smiled as he watched Esme work.
The apprentice was lost in thought, pondering what Coris had said at the door. Finally, she dared to speak.
"Mr. Coris, may I ask you something?"
"Of course, dear, ask away," the old man replied cheerfully, shifting in his chair with anticipation.
"Well… I wanted to ask what you meant when you said the mistress might 'hurt herself again'." Esme cautiously glanced outside to see if Mnou was still chopping wood. It was now pouring outside, but she stood under a magical barrier that kept her dry. It looked like she had just started.
"So that's what you're curious about," Coris nodded and continued. "You know, a few years ago, I could still roam the mountains without issue. That's when I noticed my new neighbour."
Esme found the word "neighbour" odd—after all, they lived over an hour apart—but she didn't interrupt and kept organizing the dishes.
"I often passed by and saw her sitting alone on the doorstep. Back then, my eyes were still sharp, and I could see how sad she looked. There was a lostness in her eyes — the kind you see in someone who doesn't know where they belong. I can recognize that, you know."
The rain intensified, and the room darkened. Esme lit a candle and looked forward to Mnou bringing firewood— it was getting quite cold.
"I usually just waved at her, but one day, I decided to pay her a visit," Coris went on in a somewhat monotonous voice, seemingly forgetting about his audience or why he'd started the story in the first place. "I baked an apple pie. It didn't turn out very well, and it took me longer than I'd hoped, so I set out late. I didn't mind—I enjoy night walks. When I arrived, it was completely dark. It had started drizzling, and the wind was blowing. I was worried the pie would get soggy after all that effort," he chuckled.
Esme realized she had stopped sorting the dishes and was just leaning against the cupboard, listening intently. She was amazed at how vividly he remembered everything.
"I knocked once, then twice, then a third time. I was just about to peek through the window when the door opened—just a crack—and I saw those frightened eyes."
'What do you want?' Mnou asked fearfully.
'I came to visit,' I explained with a smile. 'I even baked a pie. Not a great one, but still edible, I hope!'
She looked at me with such discomfort, I thought she might slam the door in my face. But I wasn't discouraged. I knew her type. You must be a little pushy to offer help."
Eventually, she said reluctantly, "Come in," and opened the door wide.
Inside, it was dim. The fireplace was down to glowing embers, flickering faintly. But it was still warm—that was what mattered.
Want me to add some wood?" I asked.
"If you want," she replied blankly and slumped at the table. In front of her was a vial filled with a dark liquid, black in the flickering firelight.
I added a few logs to the fire, which eagerly caught flame. The red glow turned orange, and the fire crackled, blending with the wind and rain outside.
"Have you eaten dinner?" I asked while looking for a knife to cut the pie.
"No, but I'm not hungry," she muttered without even glancing at me. Her eyes were fixed on the bottle.
"Oh, come on. A little something sweet never hurt anyone, right?" I said cheerfully, sitting beside her with the knife and the pie. She shot me a tired glance but didn't react. I sliced the pie, and the scent of apples and cinnamon filled the room.
"As I said, it's not great. Got a little burnt. I'm not much of a cook. Still, maybe it's edible." I pushed the plate toward her so she could choose a piece.
"Why are you here? What do you want?" she muttered, not touching the pie.
"Just visiting. Is it so strange for neighbours to check on each other? You seemed...quite lonely."
"And what's it to you?" she snapped, glaring. "Why should you care? You don't even know me."
"If we only cared about the people we knew well, we'd have hardly anyone besides our parents," I replied.
She scoffed. "Don't treat me like a fool. You know what I mean. Why would you care about someone else's problems? I bet you have enough of your own without adding mine."
"Everyone has plenty of problems, that's true," I nodded. "But we don't have to carry them all alone, do we? Life would be easier if we shared the load."
"No one wants to carry someone else's burdens," she snapped, turning her gaze to a dark corner.
"You'd be surprised how many people are willing to lend a helping hand. It's a mutual thing. When we open to someone, we also agree to carry their weight. When one stumbles and is about to fall, the other catches them. Alone, they might fall into the abyss. Living selfishly and in solitude helps no one."
She kept staring into the darkness. Thunder rumbled outside.
"What's in that bottle?" I asked suddenly and quickly grabbed it before she could stop me.
"That's… a headache potion," she snapped and lunged to snatch it back. I pulled it away just in time.
"Really? Then I'll take some—I've had a nasty headache lately," I said and began opening it.
"No, stop!" she cried and yanked it from my hands.
"Seriously now, what's in it?" I asked, though I already had a hunch. I looked at her intently.
She hesitated. She finally realized it was pointless to lie.
"Poison hemlock," she mumbled and turned her head away, almost ashamed.
My fears were confirmed. I sighed deeply. "I figured as much. Hemlock is deadly. Why would you do that?"
She turned to me, her eyes brimming with tears.
"That's none of your business! You don't know anything about me, so stop lecturing me! I can do what I want with my life!"
"You mustn't do this," I said calmly.
"And why not? It's not like anyone would miss me."
"I would." I meant it.
"Don't be ridiculous," she retorted, wiping her tears.
"I'm serious," I said out loud. I gently took the bottle from her hands. "I'll take this."
She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, staring at the dirty tablecloth.
"What… what am I supposed to do?" she whispered helplessly. "I got a second chance, but I don't know what to do with it. I know it's not fair to the people who helped me, but I just don't know what to do." She gave me a broken, defeated look. Her eyes filled with tears again. "There is no meaning to this all. There's no reason for me to go on living here."
"Even the smallest and silliest reason is enough to keep going," I said gently, as if speaking to a child. "Even if it's just to enjoy tomorrow's sunrise or have a good meal."
She looked at me, confused and disbelieving. "Just that?" she stammered. "That's ridiculous. That's no reason to live. The sun rises every day."
"If you learn to appreciate the present moment, every sunrise and sunset will feel like the first time."
She still watched me with suspicion, like a cornered animal.
"Try it for now. Hold on to that until you're ready to move forward. No one knows what tomorrow brings. Something unexpected might knock on your door. But for now, hold on to that single strand."
"O... okay... I'll try," she stammered, still sniffing and wiping away her tears.
"That's more like it," I smiled at her and handed her a tissue, as her nose started running again.
"Th... thank you."
"Alright, now let's dig into that pie, shall we?"
"Okay," the girl agreed, and with a smile, she took a bite of the now-cold apple pie.