[center][url=https://open.spotify.com/track/5gWtkdgdyt5bZt9i6n3Kqd?si=37957e6e11974ccb][img]https://i.postimg.cc/05m61xNT/Elena-Castellano-removebg-preview-1.png[/img][/url][/center][right][sub]Interactions:N/A[/sub][/right][hr]
[indent]The aroma of cloves and chamomile clung to the apartment’s aging framework, seeping from floorboards that creaked underfoot.  Elena stood motionless in the kitchen, her palms encircling a chipped ceramic mug, its warmth leaching into her skin as steam spiralled upward before dissolving. She had no recollection of brewing the tea. Muscle memory had taken over—kettle whistling, leaves unfurling in hot water, no sugar—as if her body operated independently of her divided attention.

Outside, the South Bank was its usual chorus of murmurs and muffled transit. Somewhere below, a vendor hawked day-old pastries to passing foot traffic, his call warbling through the cracked windowpane like an out-of-tune instrument. The sound belonged to this place, like the creaking of the old radiator or the occasional thud from the upstairs apartment where the pipes had been arguing with winter since the season's first cold snap. They shuddered intermittently, as if resentful of their own purpose, groaning behind the thin plaster walls, rattling in sharp bursts whenever someone flushed too often or tried to take a shower past midnight. Elena had given up trying to predict when they’d make their presence known. The building was old, lopsided in places, and carried the weight of too many quick fixes and not enough care. There was a warped patch in the floorboard near the hallway that sang under her heel, and a windowsill in the living room that sloped just enough to send plant pots tumbling if she wasn’t careful. It was the kind of place that insisted on being remembered, even with all its flaws. 

And yet she liked all those things. Or perhaps she’d simply gotten used to them. There was a strange comfort in which a home could both be tired and tender. 

She shifted her grip on the mug and exhaled through her nose. The tea had gone tepid. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there, lost in the hiss and groan of the radiator and the vague smell of toasted spices. Somewhere in the next room, her mother was humming. The soft clink of glass told Elena she was already reorganizing the tinctures. Again. No doubt, lining them up by mood or medicinal use, whichever method felt more poetic this week. 

This time was a bit…different, though. 

The clink of glass came again. It was her tell. Some parents knit or paced. Her mother organized. Lavender next to lemon balm. Skullcap next to spearmint. Distraction disguised as diligence.

“[color=#f881ae]We’re out of valerian root,[/color]” came her mother’s voice from the other room. Not an accusation. But Elena heard the edge tucked into the forced softness. “[color=#f881ae]I used the last of it for the Wilson girl’s sleep draught. I told you to remind me to pick up more.[/color]”

“[color=#f9c2bf]I’ll grab some today,[/color]” Elena said evenly, taking another sip of her lukewarm tea. “[color=#f9c2bf]Tuesday market should have it.[/color]” She didn’t mention she’d already written it on the kitchen chalkboard in careful block letters last night. The same list her mother had likely walked past twice already.

Elena’s mother materialized in the doorway, her silhouette distinct against the milky morning light. The edges of her indigo robe brushed the floorboards, and sunlight gilded the silver streaks in her hair, transforming them into filaments of frost. Her face betrayed fatigue, but anxiety animated her, as it always did, coiling her muscles into restless energy. She glanced at the satchel slumped on the chair and arched a brow.

“[color=#f9c2bf]Tuesday market,[/color]” Elena repeated, preempting the interrogation simmering behind her mother’s pursed lips.

A pause. Then: “[color=#f881ae]Not the North?[/color]”

“[color=#f9c2bf]No,[/color]” Elena said, and this time, it wasn’t a lie.

Her mother didn’t push. She simply crossed the room, lifted a jar from the shelf with her long, slender fingers, and turned it slowly in her hand. Her eyes didn’t rise, but her voice did, quiet but sure.

“[color=#f881ae]I still can’t believe you were there. With that… thing you described.[/color]” She said it like she didn’t want to know more. Like giving it a name might invite it in. Elena almost said the word anyway—[i]doppelganger[/i]—but held back. It wouldn’t help her here in the slightest. “[color=#f881ae]Next time, you walk away. No matter what it looks like or which little girls you’re trying to protect. [i]Promise me.[/i] hija.[/color]”

Elena suppressed a groan. Not this again….

She hadn’t gone in blind. It wasn’t like she’d flung herself into danger for the thrill of it, or out of some misguided hero complex. Luciana had been there. Curled in her arms, too small to know better, too scared to move. And Loni—Loni had been trying to protect them both, even as her arm bled and the creature taunted her with a grotesque smile.

Elena hadn’t even realized she was moving until the salt circle almost broke beneath her heel. Well…no, that wasn’t quite true. She [i]had[/i] left Loni’s circle of protection. But it had only been to try and help her while the circle still stood and while the creature had been distracted.  She didn’t regret stepping out. But it had cost her something that her mother probably wished she hadn’t lost. A measure of safety, maybe. Or distance. That fragile illusion that she could live in this city without getting involved, just brewing her teas, listening to rumours, and staying one careful step away from the chaos that rippled beneath Cloverfield’s skin.

She’d always known it was an illusion. But illusions were comfortable. Until they weren’t. Until they were broken. 

Her mother mistook her silence for acquiescence. “[color=#f881ae]You think I want you here just because I’m old and worried, don’t you?[/color]” 

Her mother set the jar down, then braced her palms against the counter as if steadying more than just herself.

“[color=#f881ae]It’s not the gangs I worry about. Not the broken lights or bad pipes or whatever else they say about the South Side,[/color]” she said slowly, like each word had to be coaxed past a memory. “[color=#f881ae]It’s the things that dress themselves as protection. That promise structure, safety, [i]purpose[/i], but take more than they give.[/color]”

She didn’t say the word [i]coven[/i]. She didn’t have to.

“[color=#f881ae]People think the North has all the answers,[/color]” she added, “[color=#f881ae]But I’ve seen what they call answers. And what they demand in return.[/color]”

Her gaze shifted to Elena then—

“[color=#f881ae]You’re strong, mija. But strength doesn’t mean you owe anyone your soul.[/color]”

Elena held her mother’s gaze,  part of her wanting to ask more. About what exactly had happened, about what had been given up, about who or what had once called her mother sister. But the moment didn’t belong to questions. That’s what it felt like. So, she nodded. Just once. Then stepped away from the counter and reached for her satchel.

“[color=#f9c2bf]I’ll be back before lunch,[/color]” she said, slipping the strap over her shoulder. 

A sigh escaped the older woman, weary and weathered. “[color=#f881ae]Bueno. Go.[/color]” She waved a hand toward the door, already retreating into the alchemy of her tinctures. Glasses clinked in the other room once more,  a requiem of resignation.[/indent]