I'd expected my grandmother's house to feel abandoned.
Dusty. Quiet. Empty in the polite, lonely way of places that had been left behind.
Instead, it felt like it had been holding its breath.
The moment I crossed the threshold, warmth wrapped around me. Not heat. Recognition. The air hummed softly, vibrating just under my skin, like an old cat purring somewhere just out of sight.
"Well," I muttered, dropping my bag. "That's unsettling."
The door closed behind me with a decisive click.
Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, cluttered with jars, books, and objects that definitely did not belong in a normal house. Crystals glinted faintly in the low light. A dried bundle of herbs shifted on its own, rustling as if annoyed to be ignored. The lights flickered once, then steadied.
My pulse picked up.
This wasn't décor. This was a system. A warded, layered, very intentional space.
I didn't have time to spiral before a voice cut cleanly through the air.
"You're late."
I spun.
My grandmother stood in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, silver hair braided neatly down her back. Her eyes were sharp as glass and just as unforgiving. Magic clung to her like a second skin, woven into every breath she took.
"You didn't call," I said weakly.
She snorted. "Witches don't announce their arrivals. Sit. We have much to discuss."
My knees bent automatically, dropping me into the nearest chair. The table beneath my hands felt solid. Grounding. Like it had opinions about me being there and had decided to allow it.
She studied me for a long moment, gaze piercing, calculating.
"You're thinner," she said. "And you're late blooming."
"Late blooming what?" I asked.
"You're a witch," she said bluntly. "Your magic is awake. And you're an omega."
The word landed like a slap.
I laughed once. High. Brittle. "No," I said. "Try again."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes softening just a fraction. Enough to make my chest ache.
"Child," she said quietly, "your life is about to become… crowded."
Something howled outside. Low. Distant.
The sound threaded through my bones and settled somewhere deep, familiar in a way that made my throat tighten.
I swallowed. "You're going to have to explain everything."
My grandmother smiled.
"Of course," she said. "But first, tea. This conversation requires fortification."