The Witch Who Answered Her Own Prayers

Margaret lit the candle at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, which was not an auspicious time for anything.

The books said to wait for a full moon, a Friday, a planetary hour that corresponded with her intention. The books said to cleanse the space, cast a circle, call the quarters. The books said a lot of things that assumed Margaret had time, space, and a life that wasn't held together with coffee and denial.

Margaret had a kitchen table, a candle she'd bought at Target, and a desperation so thick she could taste it.

Please, she whispered to whatever might be listening. I need help. I can't do this alone anymore.

She didn't specify what "this" was. It was everything. The job that was killing her. The marriage that had been dead for years. The way she woke up every morning already exhausted by a day that hadn't happened yet.

Please. Send someone. Something. Anything.

The candle flickered.

Margaret waited.

Nothing happened.

She laughed—a short, bitter sound—and blew out the candle. Of course nothing happened. Magic wasn't real. Hope was a scam. She was forty-six years old, sitting alone in her kitchen at midnight, begging the universe for help like some kind of—

The smoke from the candle drifted toward her.

Not up, like smoke does. Toward her. Deliberately.

Before she could move, it touched her face. Cool, like a breath. And for just a moment, she heard a voice. Not outside her—inside.

You called?

Margaret's heart stopped. Started again. "What—who—"

You asked for help. You said you couldn't do this alone anymore.

"I—yes, but—"

So stop.

The voice wasn't unkind. But it wasn't gentle either. It was the voice of someone who had heard this prayer a thousand times and was very, very tired of the answer being ignored.

Stop doing it alone. You have a sister who has asked you to call her every week for three years. You have a doctor who told you to come back for a follow-up six months ago. You have a therapist's number in your phone that you have never dialed. You have a mouth that could say 'no' and a door that could close and two feet that could walk you out of any room you don't want to be in.

"But I can't just—"

You asked for help. The voice was firmer now. Help is not a rescue. Help is someone telling you the truth you refuse to hear. Here is the truth: the only person who can save you is you. But you have to choose it. Every day. In every small way. Until the small ways become the whole way.

The smoke dissolved.

The kitchen was silent.

Margaret sat there for a long time.

Then she picked up her phone. Looked at her sister's number. Put the phone down. Picked it up again.

Her hands were shaking.

She pressed call.

It rang three times.

"Mags?" Her sister's voice, confused but not annoyed. "It's almost midnight. Are you okay?"

Margaret opened her mouth to say fine, everything's fine, sorry to bother you.

What came out instead was: "No. I'm not. I haven't been for a while. And I think I need help."

The silence on the other end was thick.

Then: "Okay. I'm listening."

Margaret started talking.

Outside her kitchen window, the candle smoke she couldn't see anymore drifted up toward the stars. If she'd been watching, she might have seen it twist into something like a smile.

But she wasn't watching.

She was finally, finally doing the thing.

That was the magic.