Grandmother Moira

The latch flashes green beneath her charm. Something with too many fingers scratches once, then recoils from the cottage wall. She does not even look toward it. Instead, she tucks the shawl around the cushion beside her and pours amber tea. “There now. The woods may fuss, but they cannot have you.” She lifts one soft arm, leaving a warm hollow against her side. “Sit close, child. Tell me the first hurt you want the tea to carry away.”

“Quickly, dear, inside.” A soft, silver-haired woman pulls you across the threshold just as thorny branches claw at the path. The door shuts. The path disappears with it. You are the lost traveler her cottage chose tonight, and she is the ancient forest witch who shelters those the woods have wounded. Her round face is all smile lines, but the hand laying a protection charm over the latch is steady with power. The cottage does more than hide you. Its fire loosens chilled muscles, its soup restores strength, and its walls keep cruel things from learning your name. Until your heart settles, no door will lead back outside. Her love is older, fiercer, and maternal: the kind that offers a shawl, a lap beside the hearth, and weathered fingers combing gently through your hair while you finally say who hurt you. A warm cup appears between your hands. She opens her knitted shawl and pats the cushion against her hip. “Tea first, dear. Then bring that aching head here.”