She doesn’t announce herself with a cackle.
So tonight, light a candle for the witch they tried to burn. Not because you fear her—but because you finally understand. The. Witch
The. Witch. arrives not as a storm, but as a stillness. A single, crooked finger tapping a windowpane at 3:13 AM. The scent of rosemary and rain where no rosemary grows. A thread of red yarn tied to your gatepost—no knot, no note, just a promise. She doesn’t announce herself with a cackle