Chapter Text
Salem smelled like damp cobblestones and smoke stacks, the air thick with the kind of chill that found its way under your heavy coat no matter how tightly you pulled it. Lights from shop windows flickered against puddles in the street, reflections of broomsticks, crystals, and “authentic spell kits” promising luck and love for the low-low price of thirty bucks.
In Salem, everything was dressed up for tourists, and this place was probably no exception.
Waverly Earp stood in front of the old store, eyeing the weathered sign that read The Magic Shop. The building looked like something out of a ghost story — discolored bricks, crumbling mortar, windows clouded with dust — but she knew better.
“Are we going in?” came the grumble from somewhere near Waverly’s right shoulder. She pulled her coat tighter against the cold, but the complaining didn’t stop.
“Or are we just standing here freezing our fine asses off for the aesthetic?”
Rosita Bustillos had been Waverly’s best friend since their freshman year at Harvard. Brilliant, beautiful, and effortlessly confident, Rosita was the kind of woman people noticed. If Waverly hadn’t thought of her more like a sister than the walking embodiment of hotness, she might’ve jumped her years ago.
Realizing she was bisexual at a place like Harvard had made coming out surprisingly easy. Finding her person, though, that was another story. Waverly hadn’t found true love. Not yet.
But Waverly was nothing if not hopeful, especially after dating a piece of shit for all of high school. She was due an epic romance, the kind that made the universe pause. A soulmate who would wake her soul by the touch of their fingertips. And she was ready to cash in her credits.
Which was why Waverly and Rosita were in Salem a week before Christmas break — Rosita chasing material for her graduate paper on regional folklore, and Waverly tagging along because she needed a change of scenery.
Maybe a sign that the universe hadn’t completely forgotten her.
Maybe she’d bump into some gorgeous guy who would sweep her off her feet.
Maybe she would meet a bewitching woman who would douse her with a love potion.
Her older sister, Wynonna, would say anything was possible with a bottle of whiskey and bad decisions. Waverly fully intended to indulge in both before the weekend was over.
A sharp wind whipped down the narrow street, carrying the bite of sea salt and snow. It tugged at Waverly’s scarf, tangled her hair, and sent dry leaves skittering across the cobblestones like tiny ghosts. The air smelled of chimney smoke and cold metal, and her fingers ached from clutching the paper coffee cup Rosita had handed her an hour ago. Salem in December had a way of getting under your skin; part charm, part chill, part something that felt almost alive.
“Yes, let’s get inside before you say something about a witch’s tit again.” Waverly tossed her crumbled cup into the trash bin before she reached for the door. “After you, my lady.”
The door creaked, and a bell jingled overhead. Warm air spilled out to meet her, carrying the scent of incense and old paper. When the door shut behind her with a heavy thud, the sounds of the street disappeared, replaced by a hush that felt ancient and expectant. It was the kind of silence that had its own secrets.
Too many secrets and too few customers.
“This place may actually be haunted,” Rosita whispered, her voice almost reverent.
They both stopped, taking in the narrow aisles and shadowed corners of the empty shop. The shelves sagged under the weight of strange, dust-covered relics that seemed to hum with old desperation.
“Does anyone even work here?” she asked, even quieter.
“Yes.”
The single word came from somewhere behind the black counter. The voice was low and unexpected. Waverly jumped, her heart lurching as Rosita let out a sharp gasp and grabbed her arm. A figure stepped out of the dim light at the back of the store, shadows clinging to their shoulders like a long-lost friend.
“Holy copoly!” Waverly screeched, pushing Rosita off of her in case she needed to run.
The figure moved with the kind of effortless grace that made time seem to stand still. A woman, Waverly realized as she stepped closer, her outline sharpening in the low light. She wasn’t old, exactly, but her face held the kind of serenity that made it impossible to tell. Her hair was silver-white and perfectly smooth, braided down her back and pulled over her shoulder like a river cutting through black rocks.
“Sorry,” Waverly said quickly, voice pitching higher than intended. “We didn’t mean to—uh—trespass. The door was open.”
The woman smiled, just barely and crookedly. “Curiosity is welcome here. Fear, not so much.”
Rosita muttered under her breath, “define welcome,” but Waverly elbowed her quickly, ending whatever else might fall out of her open mouth.
The woman stepped behind the counter, her movements slow and deliberate, like sand through an hourglass, her hands folded in front of her. “You’re looking for something.” It wasn’t a question.
Waverly hesitated. “A gift, maybe. My sister’s hard to shop for. She has….hmmm, special tastes.”
“Wynonna Earp,” the woman said, as if tasting the name for bitterness.
Waverly blinked and took a step backward. “How did you—”
The woman tilted her head toward the cluttered shelves. “Names leave traces. The air remembers things if you know how to listen.”
Rosita shot Waverly a look that said, "This is your fault," but there was a flicker of fascination in her eyes, too. She loved this kind of shit.
The shop felt smaller the longer they stood in it, as if it was shrinking with each breath they took. The air was thick, full of a damp scent and electric like static. There was a faint sound of something ticking somewhere. Tick. Tick. Tick. Every surface gleamed with strange reflections: glass jars filled with herbs, crystals that seemed to glow gold from within, dolls missing their eyes, mirrors that didn’t always show what they should—cracked and broken pieces, reminding Waverly of a fun house mirror.
And then Waverly saw it.
On a small round table near the counter sat a snow globe. Not the usual kind you find in airport gift shops, but something older and heavier. The base looked like tarnished silver, etched with symbols she didn’t recognize. Inside, the miniature town was detailed and perfect with its tiny brick buildings, frosted trees, and a frozen pond.
“Pretty,” Waverly murmured. Her fingers twitched at her side, aching to touch it.
The woman’s eyes followed hers. “That one isn’t for sale.”
“Didn’t ask,” Rosita said, but her voice wavered a little. She shifted her weight back on her heels and crossed her arms over her chest, standing straighter even though Waverly knew Rosita was five seconds from running out the door. “Did we?” she trailed off.
Waverly stepped closer anyway, drawn by something she couldn’t quite name. The glass caught the dim light and scattered it, with faint colors moving like the Northern Lights. For a moment, she thought she saw movement inside—something pale flashing near the pond—but when she blinked, it was gone.
She turned back toward the counter. “Do you take card or cash?”
The woman’s eyes hardened. “Neither. The things that matter here are traded differently.”
Rosita snorted. “What is this, the Hocus Pocus version of Amazon?”
The woman ignored her, eyes focused solely on Waverly. “You have questions you haven’t asked yet.”
“I have a lot of those,” Waverly said quietly. She wanted to touch the snow globe almost more than she wanted to take her next breath, and that was the only thought consuming her mind, taking away her ability to ask anything else
“Then take your time.”
The words felt less like permission and more like an invitation.
Something about the stillness of the shop made it hard to breathe. The clock—or whatever was ticking—kept a rhythm that seemed to sync with Waverly’s pulse. Maybe it was her heart she was hearing after all. She wasn’t sure, but she knew the sound was spreading up. She looked once more at the snow globe. There was definitely movement this time. A faint shape, a flicker of red and gold.
Waverly stepped closer, bending down until her breath fogged the glass. The wind outside howled against the old windows, but inside the walls of the magic store, the air continued to thicken like black coffee.
Behind her, Rosita whispered, “Waves, maybe we should go.”
Waverly nodded, though she didn’t move. The figure in the globe had turned toward her.
“Did you see that?”
“What?” Rosita turned to look at the snow globe. “Just an old piece of junk.”
Waverly blinked hard and looked again. Nothing moved. Just the still glass, the frozen town, the quiet shimmer of light.
Before she could reach out, the shopkeeper stepped between her and the table. Up close, the woman seemed taller, more intimidating.
“That one isn’t for sale,” she said, her voice calm but firm.
Waverly straightened, taking a small step away from the woman. But she was unable to move away from the globe entirely. She needed to be close to it. “I wasn’t going to touch it.”
“Good. Some things don’t like to be handled.”
Waverly wasn’t sure what that meant, but something inside her said the woman was wrong. The globe wanted Waverly as much as Waverly wanted the globe.
Rosita shifted behind her. “Okay, creepy. Noted.”
Waverly hesitated, eyes flicking toward the globe again. It was pulling her. She needed to know. “You said curiosity was welcome.”
“It is,” the woman replied. “But that doesn’t mean everything here is meant to be sold.”
There was no challenge in her tone, but something in Waverly’s chest tightened anyway. “It just,” she stuttered, “it feels familiar,” she said before she could think better of it. “Like I’ve seen it before. Or maybe dreamed of it.”
The woman studied her, tilting her head to the side, expression unreadable. “Dreams are not harmless things, Miss Earp.”
“How do you know my—”
The shopkeeper’s intense look silenced her. She stepped closer, the hem of her long skirt brushing across the wooden floor. Her eyes were mesmerising with pale gold outlining the black irises, sharp enough to feel like they could cut you with a single look. In the dim light, the woman's movement seemed to pull the room in around her, the air thickening until Waverly forgot to breathe.
Waverly swallowed, heart beating faster as the ticking inside the hallowed walls quickened too. “Look, I don’t know. Just that one. I need it. I’ll pay whatever you want.”
“This is not about money.”
“I didn’t think it was,” Waverly said softly. She knew without a doubt the snow globe meant something to her, and it had nothing to do with money. “I just—there’s something about it. I can’t explain it.”
The woman glared at Waverly, considering her. “And if I told you that taking it would cost you something and you can’t return it?”
Waverly smiled faintly, nerves tightening in her stomach. “I’d still take it. That’s how I buy most of my mistakes.” She chuckled nervously. “Right?”
For a moment, the woman’s mouth curved, almost approving. “You are bold.”
“Maybe just desperate,” Waverly mumbled. She wasn’t sure why, but a feeling of desperation was the most prevalent in her heart.
The woman turned slightly, her hand hovering over the globe. “Everything in this shop calls to someone. Most people walk away.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” the woman said, quiet but confident. “You are not.”
The air in the shop seemed to hold its breath. Then, slowly, the woman stepped aside.
Waverly reached out, fingers trembling as they brushed the cool glass. The snow inside stirred, swirling on its own, and for an instant she thought she saw a flash of red again and something else—gone before she could be sure.
Rosita muttered, “Please tell me you’re not buying the haunted piece of…”
Waverly smiled, eyes never leaving the globe. “I think I just did.”
She moved slowly and lifted the globe from the wobbly table, pulling it close to her chest, cradling it there.
The shop seemed to breathe around them. Finally. A draft slipped through unseen cracks, stirring the hanging charms so they chimed in uneven rhythm. Candlelight flickered in glass jars, bending and stretching across the counter like reflections in a pool of water.
Waverly still held the globe in her hands, the weight of it heavier than it should have been. Beneath the glass, the snow had settled again, soft and untouched, but the faintest trace of a fingerprint marked one of the miniature windows inside.
“Feels warm,” Waverly murmured.
The woman’s gaze followed her words. “It remembers touch.”
Rosita shivered, taking a step toward the door. “Okay, we’re officially done here.”
But Waverly couldn’t set it down. “What’s inside it?” she asked. “The town,” she paused, studying the scene, “It looks like somewhere real.”
“Perhaps it is,” the woman said, her tone unreadable. “Perhaps it’s somewhere that once was.”
Waverly glanced up. “And now?”
The woman smiled faintly. “Now it belongs to you.”
A slight chill threaded down Waverly’s spine, but she tightened her grip and nodded anyway. The shopkeeper reached and tugged it from Waverly’s grip. She placed it gently on the counter and then wrapped the globe in worn black velvet, her hands careful, almost reverent.
When she passed it across the counter, their fingers brushed, and for a heartbeat, Waverly swore she heard a voice—faint, distant, calling her name.