Page 91 of Summertime Hexy
Beside him stands Lillian.
Not the little girl who used to draw spell-circles in crayon.
She’s taller now. Composed. Her magic hums around her in quiet, respectful waves, like it’s grown with her and learned not to overwhelm the space she stands in.
Hazel grips my hand without thinking, and we walk to greet them.
Torack’s eyes crinkle. “You’ve built something beautiful.”
“Still has its chaotic charm,” Hazel says. “But yeah. It’s getting there.”
Lillian steps forward, her voice clear and calm. “I’ve been dreaming of coming back.”
Her eyes scan the camp—taking in the kids, the counselors, the magic curling through the trees. “I didn’t think it would feel like this again.”
I look at her closely.
She doesn’t mean the scenery.
She means safety. Belonging.
I know that feeling too well.
“You’re welcome here,” I say. “Always.”
We give them a tour—show them the new wings, the quiet benches under the charm trees, the salamander pond where the water glows pink in the evenings. Lillian smiles at every new spell marker, every mural, every scent of fresh-brewed potion on the breeze.
And I watch Torack watch her.
His daughter.
Alive. Thriving.
Because this place exists.
Later, Hazel and I sit on the steps of the new creature barn, sipping iced tea that’s mildly cursed to never spill, and watch the camp unfold.
Milo is halfway through organizing a duel between a pixie and a very competitive enchanted turtle.
Kids are laughing. Spells crackle faintly. Someone’s levitating a fire pit.
It’s loud.
Messy.
And perfect.
Hazel leans against me, her hair brushing my neck. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure? You’ve got that broody stare again.”
I glance at her. “It’s not broody. It’s reflective.”
“It’s broody.”
“Fine. A little broody.”
