The oak door slowly creaks open, the inside air meeting the outside and stirring up a faint mist.
Willow: ...
She struggles her way through the garden, a brazier in her arms.
Willow: It's been near a week.
With every step, her right leg gives out a painful creak.
She looks at the half-open window. This week has seen a number of uninvited guests, but not one of them was the one she's been hoping to see.
That curious little thing who flutters back and forth like a sparrow.
Willow: Heh. This is how the world works. I should've known. I'm always too naive.
She carries out her usual task of clearing out the garden.
First, she gathers dry twigs and leaves to use as kindling.
Then, she strikes a match, throws it into the brazier, and waits for the fire to grow.
Willow: ...
As the fire intensifies, she gathers the trash from around the garden, most of which is flung into her garden by her neighbors, and adds it to the fire.
Willow: A dead mouse. Classic, sure to disgust me.
Willow picks up the decaying mouse carcass and tosses it into the flames, the fire flaring up so fiercely it nearly scorches her eyebrows.
In the early years, she would often watch from the window, her dark eyes fixed on the people who passed by.
Willow: Rotten apples and eggs from that boring old codger. I suppose he's down to his last teeth now. Soon enough, the only thing he'll be eating is porridge.
Willow: Bit of comfort in knowing he hates porridge.
Even now, the old mansion's doors and windows remain firmly shut. The owner's face hasn't been seen for many years. All the neighbors know is that a fearsome witch lives there.
Willow: Hands burnt by steam. It's a curse, bumping into ghosts during the Samhain. Curse, lost everything betting on the ponies.
Willow: Each and every misfortune must surely be "Willow's curse."
She picks out some garlic from the garbage bin. This simple seasoning can be repurposed as seeds or fertilizer.
Willow: Superstitious fools.
The only items that cannot be utilized are the wooden carvings with bizarre symbols on them, rumored to possess the power to ward off demons.
Willow: Shysters.
Demon-Banishing Water is the most clumsy and silly item, but it's also the most manageable to deal with.
Willow simply lets it be, treating the water poured into her garden as free irrigation.
Willow: Brats.
Salt—this is the worst offender. It dehydrates the plants, often killing them outright. She digs up the tainted soil, ready to wash later.
Willow: Oh. Well, now these are new, aren't they? Blood-stained rags. Wonderful.
Willow: Sooner or later they'll all cough their lungs out.
*click-clack*
Willow: ...!
The stiffness in her right leg is unbearable. Mosquitoes incessantly buzz in her ears.
Moments later, Willow's leg gives way, and she collapses into a patch of potato flowers.
Willow: ...
Soft, soggy soil.
...
A limp, decomposing body.
...
Willow: No!
She smacks her prosthesis on the knee, as if the blow will set the joint back in its rightful place.
She grabs the dirt as she fights to get to her feet, struggling. This is a struggle she's long grown used to.
Vines Carbuncle: Squeak!
Lured by the sound of her strikes, the Carbuncles slowly make their way toward her.
Willow: Away with you!
The critters scatter, ducking behind the leaves and watching her quietly from a distance.
She clutches a vine with one hand, but it only throws her off balance, and she falls to the ground once again.
Willow: Ugh!
Willow: Horrible.
She is more proficient in the art of balance than almost anyone, yet she also finds it more difficult than anyone to adjust to even the smallest imperfection.
Willow: No. I don't need to cast my arcane skills.
Willow: Stand up, stand up! You loser, you. Ugh.
Willow: I need machine lubricant. I suppose I need to buy some.
This time, she makes it to her feet.
*clack—clack*
Willow: I can do this. I will do this, all by myself.
Her steps grow clearer, more steady. She grips the delicate metalwork of the gate.
Willow: Nothing to it.
Willow: Let's go.
*clack—clack*
Her leg clacking like a slow, mournful melody, she steps into the smoggy, somber streets of London.
There's a makeshift sign on the door.
Willow: "Shop closed due to illness, while the owner has gone to Ms. Tooth Fairy for treatment. Please leave your name, order, and address on the list below, and we will deliver it to your home as soon as the owner recovers."
She picks up the pen, then sets it down again without writing a single word.
Willow: Tooth Fairy.
Willow: Alright, then I can find the owner if I go to this Tooth Fairy? Is she some kind of doctor, then? Not that she could treat what ails me anyway, eh.
Willow: What other shops might sell canary saliva and Lanolin Snail's slime?
She wraps her cloak tighter around her body in an attempt to fend off the cold, damp air.
Willow: Heh. All this time I could have done this, if only I hadn't relied on others for so long.
Willow: There must be another store for arcane supplies. But ...
*click-clack, click-clack*
Willow: I think I need a lie-down.
The cold hues of the night still linger in the morning mist. The Thames has never looked so quiet.
Across the river, earth-red flags flutter like burning balls of fire. A smattering of white emergency medical tents are scattered below them.
A trampled Uluru Qualifiers flyer floats down to her feet, brushing against her ankle.
Willow: ...
Willow: Sports fanatics, black fog, strange tuberculosis ... All these things have nothing to do with me. All I need are my ingredients. Nothing more.
Willow: I ought to just order what I need as a home delivery, ask them to leave the package at the entrance of the garden once a week.
Willow: As for the fees, I'll just have to sell all me old medals. That'll be enough to support me until I become a proper hag, then I can never leave my house till the day I die.
Willow: ...
Willow: Heh.
Willow: Hmm?
There's something dark rising up from the water.
Willow: It's nothing special. A bit of old rope, or an old boot.
Why can't it be a swan?
Willow: A black swan here, really?
That's why you ought to go out more often. Else you'll miss these precious moments—a chance to see something special like a black swan.
Look at it. Some creatures are born with these smooth, pitch-black feathers. But it's only under the sunlight that you can see their iridescent shine.
That's when all the other animals can only look on and feel themselves inferior. They can never stand out from the crowd in the same way.
Willow: ...
Your silence is an answer. I know it, just as I know every time you lash out and curse, you're cursing your own failure. Walk closer, Charlotte. Why don't we take a better look at it?
Look at its gracefully long neck, those magnificent wings, and how it glides across the water. All swans are beautiful, but only the black feathers make it truly stand out.
It brings back some memories, don't it? The feeling of "being one with the swans" and the flow of each step of our dance.
We were so close to perfection. All we needed was for you to spread your wings and fly.
Fly to Paris, Cairo, Istanbul ... and eventually to the Uluru Rock.
Willow: Then it comes to me.
Willow: And I can hold it in my arms, lift it above my head.
Willow: This perfect, shining golden medal.
Willow: Standing on Uluru Rock.
Willow: ...!
???: Ms. Willow! But what you doin' out here?
???: You got to move! The black fog is comin' straight for you!
Willow: Ignore the noise. Eyes on the swan.
Tsk-tsk-tsk.
It's only a tacky white swan, covered in soot.
How ridiculous it looks now! Wearing that false disguise, the poor thing. It must have been covered accidentally.
???: Ms. Willow, why you lookin' at that swan? It's ... dead.
Of course, it's dead and gone.
That's right. What kind of swan would want to be with something so ugly and stained?
Of course, it's ended up alone, died alone. What else were you expecting?
You didn't really believe that "spread your wings and fly" bollocks, did you?
???: Hello, can you hear me, Ms. Willow?
You ought to thank the black fog for lifting your illusion. Now you can see it rightly.
You're not some special black swan that was born to greatness. You're nothing but—
???: Ms. Willow? You ...
???: What's wrong with your leg?
But a cripple.
???: Come back, Flutterpage!
Willow: ...
Willow lowers her head to see that Flutterpage is standing at her feet. Tooth Fairy stands a few steps away, calling out to her.
Flutterpage gently touches her prosthetic leg, revealing the secret she has been too proud to admit for the last ten years.
Flutterpage: Why? Why didn't you tell me about your ...
Tooth Fairy: You're much stronger than I thought, Ms. Willow, if you allow me to address you as such.
Willow: Leave me be. I'm going home.
Flutterpage: I'll walk you home. I got you.
Flutterpage: Ms. Tooth Fairy and I was just chasin' after the black fog, but, but I can walk you home fir—
Willow: I just want to go home.
Willow uses all her might to turn, but still can't do it with any grace. Her stiff right leg continues to impede her.
Flutterpage: I'll go with you.
She stretches out her hand and pulls at Willow's clothes in a clumsy attempt to stop her friend from leaving.
Tooth Fairy: Flutterpage.
Willow swats her hand away.
Flutterpage: Hmm?
Willow: Stop following me!
Flutterpage: Ms. Willow!
Willow: I just want to go home.
Flutterpage: I ... I ...
Flutterpage remains in place, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. Tooth Fairy steps forward and pulls her into a hug.
Flutterpage: crying
Willow: I don't want you to follow me.
Tooth Fairy: ...
They look on as Willow shakily walks into the smog, each step grinding away a little more of her dignity.
