Bobby held the envelope in one hand and stared at the knife on the counter. The blade had been glowing when he walked in this morning — steady and bright, the way it always did when the shop was running right. Now it sat cold and dark under the fluorescent lights. He set the envelope down and picked up the knife by its handle. The glow died the instant his fingers touched it. He placed the knife back on the wooden stand his grandfather had carved. The knife had never done this before. It glowed or it didn't — simple as that. Bobby opened the envelope. Inside, Aunt Jessica's handwriting filled a single card: "The knife knows what you carry. Ask yourself what changed when you became its keeper." No signature. No return address. Bobby read it three times. His chest tightened. The shop was running fine — better than fine. He'd kept every tradition his grandfather started, followed every practice his father taught him. But the knife sat dark on its stand, and Jessica's words felt like an accusation he didn't understand. If the shop wasn't the problem, then what was? He walked to the front window and looked out at the quiet street. The knife had been his proof that he was doing right by the legacy. Now that proof was gone, and all he had was a cryptic note from the one person in his family who'd nearly destroyed everything. Bobby crumpled the card in his fist. If Jessica knew something about the knife going dark, then maybe she knew more than she'd ever let on — and maybe freeing her from witchcraft meant first understanding what she'd done to his inheritance.

Bobby unlocked the shop early the next morning. The knife sat on its stand where he'd left it, still dark. He walked past it to the back office and pulled out the old ledgers his grandfather kept. If the knife had gone dark before, maybe there'd be a record of it. He was halfway through the third ledger when the bell above the door chimed. An older man stepped inside, someone Bobby recognized but couldn't quite place. The man carried a worn leather journal and nodded toward the back room. "I need to show you something," he said. Bobby followed him past the shelves and cutting tables to the dim corner where old equipment sat gathering dust. The man opened the journal and pointed to a page filled with dates and handwritten notes. "I kept track," he said. "Every time the knife went dark when Jessica ran this place. Started the night she brought that warlock here." Bobby stared at the entries. Dozens of them, spanning three years. Each one marked with a pressed leaf and a time. "Why didn't you say anything?" The man tapped a photograph tucked into the journal's front cover — him standing next to Bobby's grandfather, both of them young and grinning in front of the shop. "Your grandfather asked me to watch over things. I told your father when it got bad, but Jessica convinced him it was just the old wiring." He closed the journal. "It wasn't the wiring. It was her spells. She was trying to bind the shop's luck to Desmond's business. When you refused to work with him, the knife knew." Bobby took the journal from the man's hands. The weight of it felt like proof — not just of what Jessica had done, but of what the knife had been protecting all along. He couldn't free her from witchcraft if she was still using it against his family. The knife hadn't failed him. It had shown him exactly what he needed to see.

Bobby set the journal on the counter beside the knife. He needed to confront Jessica, but showing up at her house with Desmond watching would get him nowhere. She'd deflect like she always did, or worse, Desmond would turn him away at the door. The bell chimed. Jessica walked in alone, wearing a bright jacket he'd never seen before. She hung it on the hook by the door without asking, like she still worked here. In her hand was a small wooden box carved with hearts. She set it on the counter next to the journal. "Pine needle tea," she said. "I made it myself. No spells, I promise." A wooden hair clip held her hair back, carved with the same pattern as the box. Bobby picked up the journal and opened it to a random page. He turned it so she could see the dates, the pressed leaves, the notes about the knife going dark. "Your friend kept records," he said. "Every time you cast a spell to help Desmond. Every time you tried to drain this shop's luck." Jessica's face went pale. She reached for the box of tea, then pulled her hand back. "Bobby, I can explain—" "No." Bobby closed the journal. "I wanted to save you from witchcraft. But you're still using it against us. Against me." Jessica took a step back, her hand going to the hair clip. "That's not—I didn't know it would hurt the knife. Desmond said it was just balancing things out." Bobby shook his head. "The knife knew what you were doing. It's been protecting us from you." Jessica grabbed her jacket off the hook and left without another word. Bobby watched her go, the box of tea still sitting on his counter. He couldn't free someone who wouldn't admit what they'd done.