I Raf You Big Sister Is A Witch

Mina’s laugh was not cruel. It was the kind of sound Raf had chased on rainy afternoons. “Make people do things?” Mina echoed. “And what would I make them do? Share their sandwiches?”

I wrote because a life that contains a witch should not be left to rumor. If I were ever questioned—by grief, by disbelief, by friends who meant well and police who regarded unusualness as polite fiction—my pen would be the slow, inexorable force that proved what we had been: real. i raf you big sister is a witch

I kept writing. Why else would I have made this chronicle? Because memory is a defense; because stories are contracts we sign with future selves. This chronicle is not merely a record of deeds, but a manual for survival. Mina’s laugh was not cruel

The house had no number. People in town referred to it simply as the crooked house, though no one went near it unless they were looking for something they had lost. Inside, the floorboards remembered every footstep. On the mantel lay jars of things she called "memories in waiting": a button from a coat long eaten by moths, a child's laughter bottled like citrus peel, a scrap of a letter that had never been mailed. She stored weather there too—wind folded into an envelope, thunder like an old coin. None of these jars were labeled the way a chemist labels his vials; the labels were in ink and her hand, and ink changes names at night. “And what would I make them do