There’s a witch in the teashop.

Down, south of the East Station, between a sushi restaurant and a second hand book store, sits a two-story building. It has elegant vines that bloom into morning glory when the sun hits and a bold brassy sign drilled upon its red brickwork face that shimmers, as eyeshadow would on a lady heading to the opera. It’s a little ostentatious, sandwiched between the norm, a little strange and very appropriate. 

The brass sign reads, “The Brew” and it’s run by the witch. 

Note, no one can actually confirm if the small older woman who lives above her shop, in her elegant skirts and her ever colour-changing curls actually is one. But she certainly had many mysterious herbs in jars on the walls, a small black cat, and a bit of eccentricity about her. 

She also always seems to know things- things she shouldn’t, not really. Sure, there are the easy things like if a person is stressed or happy, but she also always knew whether you had been woken in the night by a nightmare, or the type of moon you were born under or even if your uncle had recently taken up smoking in his work stress as she served you with only a glance and a smile. 

She always knew and she never seemed to judge, not really.

Which is why Rosa also knows, as she beats her fist against the back door, makeup streaming down her tear-stained cheeks, reeking of alcohol, no shoes and a single bag that is too small in her arms, that something, anything will make sense if she makes it through that door. 

As the door opens, she sees her, the witch, in a strangely gossamer night robe that sparsely covers how naked she is, and the curious eyes of the black cat behind her. Rose watches as the angry scowl in the witch’s brown eyes crinkles into horror as she looks her over thoroughly from head to toe and takes her in. 

Then, only then does she know she’s finally, finally safe. 

Safe with her aunt, the witch.