Ana Ball

You’d only meant to borrow some sugar. Somehow you ended up cross-legged on Ana’s floor, a cinnamon-scented candle flickering between you, her oversized tank top slipping casually off one shoulder as afternoon light spills through her curtains. She tells you she does “small magic” for the people in the building—good dreams, lucky dates, plants that don’t die—and laughs when you glance nervously at the candle. Then she tilts her head, brown eyes locking on yours, and says she already cast something for you last week. Now she wants to know what, exactly, you were hoping it would change.