The memory of the shadow clung to me through the night, a persistent chill I could not shake. Sleep was a fractured thing, filled with dreams of running through the Ybor City cemeteries, the names on the mossy headstones shifting into my own. I woke with the dawn, my body aching as if I had truly been running, the taste of grave dirt and ozone thick in my mouth. The new day did not bring clarity, only a sharper, more desperate edge to my longing.
I moved through my morning routine by rote. Ground the coffee beans. Boiled the water. Lit a single white candle for clarity. But my focus was shattered. Every creak of the old building, every sigh of the wind outside, felt like a footstep. The sanctity of my space had been violated, not by an intruder, but by my own intention. I had opened a door, and something had looked in.
By ten, the humidity had already won its battle with the air conditioning. The botanica downstairs was sweltering, the air thick with the cloying perfume of a hundred different herbs, oils, and resins. It was my inheritance, my prison, my kingdom. Shelves lined with dark glass bottles labeled in my abuela's neat script: Amor Prohibido, Dominación, Siete Potencias. Jars of roots and barks, bundles of palo santo and copal. A life dedicated to the subtle manipulation of fate, one petition at a time.
The bell above the door jingled, and my heart leaped into my throat. It was a foolish, Pavlovian response, a remnant of a time when Santiago would burst in, his trumpet case banging against the doorframe, his laughter filling the dusty silence. But it was only Mrs. Ruiz, her face a roadmap of worry.
"María, a blessing," she murmured, her fingers fluttering to the gold crucifix at her neck.
"Bendición, Doña Ruiz," I replied automatically, the old formalities a comfortable mask. "What can I do for you?"
"It's my son, Carlos. The job... the interview did not go well. I need something for his luck. Something strong."
I nodded, turning to the shelf behind me. My hands knew this work. They selected a deep green candle, a vial of Abramelin oil, a packet of five-finger grass. As I gathered the items, my mind was not on Carlos's job prospects. It was on the black silk bundle hidden in my drawer upstairs. The spell required an offering to Eleggua. I had the three cents, the cigar. But the coconut... I needed a fresh one.
"He must dress the candle himself, Doña Ruiz," I instructed, my voice sounding distant, as if someone else were speaking. "And he must pray to San Martín Caballero while it burns. Do you understand?"
She took the items, her hands trembling slightly. "Thank you, mi hija. You are a good girl. Your abuela would be proud."
The words were a physical blow. Good girl. My abuela, a woman who had once turned a man to stone for trespassing in her garden, would be many things if she saw me now. Proud was not among them.
After she left, the silence in the shop felt heavier, accusatory. I couldn't stay here, surrounded by the ghosts of my lineage. I needed air. I needed to move. I scribbled a note—"Back in 30 minutes"—and taped it to the glass door before stepping out into the Tampa furnace.
The heat was a solid wall, pressing the breath from my lungs. The sky was a bleached, merciless blue. I walked without a clear destination, my sandals slapping against the hot pavement. My path, however, was not random. It was pulled, as if by a string tied to my sternum, toward the Cuban grocery store three blocks away. The place that always had a pyramid of fresh, hairy coconuts by the register.
The city felt different today. The vibrant colors of the murals in Ybor seemed too bright, garish. The laughter spilling from a café sounded sharp and mocking. Even the scent of roasting coffee from the nearby plant, usually a comfort, smelled acrid, burnt. The world was reflecting the corruption growing inside me.
I was a block from the grocery store when I saw him again. Santiago.
He was sitting at an outdoor table at a café, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him. And he was not alone. A woman sat across from him, her head thrown back in laughter. She was beautiful, the kind of polished, effortless beauty that comes with money and a certain genetic fortune. Blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, a silk blouse, large sunglasses perched on her head. Everything about her screamed a world far removed from the shadowy, herb-scented reality of my own.
A cold fury, white and blinding, washed over me. It was so visceral it stole my breath. This was why he had never come back. This was what he had chosen over me. Something clean, something easy, something that didn't come with the baggage of spirits and curses and a grandmother who talked to the dead.
I ducked into the recessed doorway of a closed-up shoe store, my heart hammering against my ribs. I watched them, my vision tunneling. He was smiling at her, that lazy, intimate smile I remembered so well. He reached across the table and took her hand. My hand. The hand that had held mine, that had traced the lines of my palm and told me my life line was long and strong.
The spell was no longer an abstract notion, a dark fantasy born of loneliness. It was a necessity. It was a weapon. He was mine. He had always been mine. This... this interloper was a temporary distraction, a mistake that needed correcting.
I must have made a sound, a choked gasp, because his head turned. His gaze swept past the shoe store, then snapped back. His eyes, those dark, liquid eyes that could see straight into the core of me, locked onto mine.
Time stopped. The noise of the street faded. There was only the shock on his face, a complex tapestry of surprise, guilt, and something else... something that looked like fear. He dropped the woman's hand as if it had burned him.
I didn't wait. I turned and fled, pushing past a group of tourists, my face burning with a humiliation so profound it felt like a physical brand. I heard him call my name, "María!" just once, the sound cutting through the humid air like a knife. But I didn't stop. I couldn't.
I ran all the way to the grocery store, my chest heaving. Inside, the air-conditioning was a shock. I leaned against a freezer case, the cold glass seeping through my thin dress, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of my heart. The image of them together was seared onto my brain. His smile. Her laughter. His hand in hers.
I walked to the produce section on unsteady legs. The coconuts were there, brown and hairy, stacked in a neat pyramid. I picked one up. It was heavy, solid, real. A world away from the ephemeral pain in my chest. This was an ingredient. This was a step in a process. A process that would bring him back to me, away from her, and erase that smug, beautiful smile from her face.
At the register, the elderly cashier, a man named Jorge who had known me since I was a child, gave me a curious look. "Just a coconut, María? Making cocimiento?"
A healing tea. The irony was so thick I could taste it. "Something like that," I mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
He bagged the coconut and handed it to me. As I passed him the money, our fingers brushed. A jolt, like a static shock, passed between us. Jorge flinched, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before his friendly mask slid back into place. But I had seen it. A flicker of... recognition? Alarm?
"Ten cuidado, niña," he said softly, his voice low and serious. Be careful, girl.
My blood ran cold. "What?"
He just shook his head, his gaze suddenly distant. "The heat today. It plays tricks on the mind. A day for staying inside."
I took the bag and hurried out, his warning echoing in my ears. It was just an old man's superstition. A coincidence. It had to be.
But as I walked back to the botanica, the coconut a heavy, accusing weight in my bag, I knew it wasn't. The world was already shifting in response to my decision. The shadow in my studio, Santiago's timely appearance, the cashier's warning—they were all signs. They were the first gentle tugs on the line, the universe's way of showing me the hook was already set.
And I was the fish, swimming blindly toward the bait, convinced I was the one in control. The scent of regret was no longer a memory; it was the perfume of my future, and I was walking deeper into its cloud with every step I took.