Midnight was a little black kitten with fur soft as soot and eyes bright as new stars. She lived with her owner, Rowan, a gentle witch whose magic smelled like warm tea and thunderstorms. Every day, Rowan brewed shimmering potions and whispered spells that made the house hum with enchantment.
Midnight adored it.
She wanted—no, needed—to be a witch just like Rowan.
So, naturally, she practiced.
Unfortunately… she wasn’t very good at it.
One morning, Midnight mimicked Rowan’s summoning charm. She sat up straight, puffed her tiny chest, flicked her tail dramatically, and meowed, “Mrrrowch!”, just as she’d heard Rowan chant. The air shivered.
And then the teapot turned into a frog.
It was a polite frog, at least. It bowed before hopping off the counter.
Later that day, Midnight tried levitation. She narrowed her eyes at a spoon, wiggled her whiskers, and—PING!—the spoon shot to the ceiling, hit a beam, and stayed there like a stubborn metallic bat.
Rowan found Midnight staring up at it in betrayal.
“Oh, kitten,” Rowan laughed, scooping Midnight into her arm. “Magic takes patience. And practice. And… well… you’re using your tail too much.”
Midnight stared at her tail, offended.
It’s Sunday — the exhale at the end of a long month.