Yogurt with freshly picked strawberries and blackberries, crackers with goat cheese and honey, and warm, freshly baked bread with herb butter and walnuts. Cody couldn’t think of a better way to start the day. Sitting outside in the soft morning sunlight, he savored his breakfast and took slow sips of his pine needle tea. In the tall grass, crickets buzzed, trying to outsing the chattering birds.

A contented smile played on his lips. Just a few days ago, he’d toyed with the idea of asking Fleur to move in with him. But now, he rather enjoyed the peace of having breakfast on his own, taking his time, with no one to answer to.

Fleur would have started planning the day the moment she sat down. Silence made her restless, while Cody found comfort in it. Listening to the sounds of nature, he felt a familiar tingling in his fingertips—the urge to paint. In his mind’s eye, the blank canvas before him was already filling with the hazel tree he was looking at. Thumb-sized pixies flitted among its twisting branches, their golden wings catching the sunlight, their voices like tinkling glass—fragile yet clear.

The image sharpened in his mind, strangely vivid. He had only ever read about pixies in old books, yet suddenly, he knew with absolute certainty that they looked just like this: with eyes too big for their faces and needle-sharp teeth. Nothing like the butterfly-winged creatures with angelic faces he had seen in his history books. Very little was known about the beings that lived in the forest. Not surprising, given that the villagers were strictly forbidden from entering. Occasionally, someone would catch a glimpse of something at the edge of the woods, but by some unspoken, ancient agreement, no forest creature ever set foot in the village.

It had always fascinated Cody. He didn’t know how the pact had come to be or how it was upheld. The only interaction between the village and the forest was the rite of passage every child underwent at ten years old. On that day, the forest gifted them a sliver of its magic. Each child was allowed to cut a branch at the forest’s edge, granting them access to the magic within.

His plate, bowl, and teacup were empty now. Cody got up and walked to the edge of the terrace, where he had planted his wand in the soil the night before. It had absorbed enough magic from the earth to fuel three spells for the day.

His hands still tingled, though the sensation had dulled. The urge to paint returned, but it would have to wait. In half an hour, his first regular customers would arrive, and nothing was ready yet.

Petunia always showed up at exactly nine o’clock to buy a fresh tea blend that eased the constant ache in her lower back.

Not today.

Orfus, his old numerology teacher, usually followed soon after, accompanied by his tame wolfhound. He would sit on the tiny terrace outside the tea shop, sipping herbal tea while Old Wammes dug up the soil, sniffing for earth pearls.

But this morning, he was nowhere to be seen.

Frowning, Cody ran a hand through his hair. This had never happened before—especially not on such a beautiful day. Had he been so caught up in his work that he missed the village gong? Had something happened?

He stepped outside. A few houses away, he heard raised voices. The path through the herb garden was empty. Was there a sickness going around? Was that why no one had shown up?

Maybe his aunt had received visitors. He crossed the yard but frowned when he saw that her workshop door was shut. The windows were closed, too. Strange—her brewing always produced a lot of smoke. Pressing his nose to the glass, he peered inside.

Nothing. No customers. No sign of his aunt.

A sinking feeling settled in his stomach as he walked around the back of the workshop to the small house where he had grown up. He knocked on the wooden door. “Lavinia? Auntie?”

No answer.

The unease tightened its grip. He turned the knob and stepped inside. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he walked through the narrow hallway into the living room.

“Auntie?” he called again.

Something shifted. A clatter. Cody’s pulse quickened, and he hurried toward the sound. The living room was empty. The kitchen, then. He turned right, taking just a few steps before he caught sight of the counter. One of the drawers was open, and next to it stood his aunt.

She was holding a bread knife.

“Get out!”

Cody froze. His eyes widened as he took in her appearance—dressed in a nightgown, her dark blonde hair sticking out in all directions. “Auntie? What’s wrong?”

Lavinia narrowed her eyes, tightening her grip on the knife. “You’re not fooling me!”

Cody forced himself to steady his breathing. He could hardly believe what he was seeing: his aunt, standing in the kitchen with a knife, her twisted expression making it clear she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

Slowly, he raised his hands and took a careful step back. “Why aren’t you working in your workshop?” Maybe if he shifted her focus, it would help.

She frowned, lowering the knife just a fraction—before raising it again. Her gaze never left his. “I don’t have a workshop.”

She didn’t remember her own workplace? How was that possible?

A sinking suspicion crept in. “And me? Do you recognize me?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “Never seen you before in my life.”

Cody swallowed. “I can prove that’s not true.” His heartbeat pounded in his chest. If she kicked him out now— “There’s a painting of us,” he said carefully. “Above the fireplace.” He gestured toward the living room, stepping back further so she wouldn’t feel trapped.

Her sharp breathing betrayed the inner battle she was fighting. She was scared. Confused. Understandable, if she had lost important memories. Something must have gone wrong in the memory vault last night.

Lavinia didn’t lower the knife, but she hesitated. She took a few uncertain steps forward. Cody moved into the living room, keeping his distance. He stopped in front of the mantel. There, above the fireplace, hung the painting he had given her for her fiftieth birthday. It showed the two of them working in the herb garden, their hands covered in soil, streaks of dirt on their faces, sweat glistening on their foreheads. They were laughing—not just with their lips, but with their eyes.

One glance at the painting brought back countless memories. Years of learning at her side. Cody turned to her, hopeful.

But there was no recognition in her face. She studied the painting, tilting her head slightly. “Who are they?”

Those three words hit him like a punch to the gut. He stared at her, stunned. “That’s me.”

She glanced between him and the painting, nodding slowly. “I can see the resemblance, yes.”

A lump formed in his throat. It took effort to push his voice past it. “And the other person is you, Auntie.”

Her frown deepened. She stepped closer to the mantelpiece. “That’s me?” She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then who are you?” Cody asked quietly, holding his breath.

She didn’t answer right away. Slowly, she let the knife drop to her side. “I—I don’t know,” she murmured.

Cody exhaled. At least she looked lost now, rather than aggressive.

“Come, sit down,” he said gently, gesturing toward the table. “I’ll make some chamomile tea. I think something happened to the memory vault last night—something that made your memories disappear.” He moved past her and pulled out a chair.

“The memory vault?” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “My head... everything feels so foggy.”

Cody swallowed hard, offering her a small, sad smile. “I know, Auntie. I’ll figure out what happened. But first, let’s get you settled.”

She shuffled toward him, suddenly looking years older.

Hesitantly, Cody placed a hand between her shoulder blades once she had taken a seat.

“I’ll make some tea for you,” he said again. “And then I’ll answer any questions you have.”