Chapter 2: The Letter

After assuring Charlotte she was fine, Marisol crossed the street and walked home. The house stood just steps from the beach—an old colonial home, modest in structure but full of a quiet, undeniable charm. It wasn’t special because a family of witches lived in it; it was special because it had been loved, because time had softened its edges without taking anything away.

It had belonged to her grandparents—her father’s parents. Her grandfather had been a wizard, and her grandmother, the daughter of a fisherman, had spent her youth helping sell the day’s catch before becoming a pearl diver. Their lives still lingered there, not in anything obvious or magical, but in the way the house held warmth even when it was empty, in the way the wood creaked like it remembered voices, in the way the air itself seemed to carry stories that refused to disappear.

Marisol’s parents had never quite belonged to it. They were both powerful witches, trained in the finest schools in Europe, fluent in spells, potions, and ancient rules—everything the magical world considered important, everything that required discipline and precision and control. Margarita, with its salt and heat and looseness, had never fully claimed them, and in quiet moments Marisol would tease them for it, calling them navegaos—castaways, people who never truly became part of the island—but they never found it funny, and beneath the small jokes there was always something sharper waiting.

They wanted her to to go study abroad.

It came up often, sometimes gently, sometimes not, but always with the same weight behind it, the same certainty that her life was meant to happen somewhere else, somewhere bigger, somewhere better. Her parents were structure, discipline, books stacked neatly on polished tables, a future that could be mapped and measured. Marisol was sun and salt and sea, something less defined and far more rooted at the same time, and she could not imagine herself anywhere else.

After she changed, dinner was ready. The house opened inward, built around a square garden at its center, with open hallways framing it on all sides so that no matter where you stood, your eyes always returned to that green, living heart. Palm trees swayed gently beside a wide mango tree that had grown tall over the years, and tropical flowers bloomed in bursts of red, orange, and soft pink, filling the air with a warm sweetness that clung softly to everything. Outside her room, along the corridor, a hammock hung between two columns, its woven threads slightly worn from years of use; it was her refuge, especially on nights when dinner turned into conversations she didn’t want to have.

They sat at the table together, the sound of the ocean drifting in from across the street and settling quietly between them.

“Did you study today?” her father asked, not looking up from his plate.

Marisol pushed a piece of food around with her fork. “A little.”

Her mother glanced at her. “A little is not enough.”

“I studied,” Marisol said, softer now, though the edge was still there.

“You’re falling behind in enchantment,” her father added.

“I’m not falling behind.”

He sighed, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. “Marisol… practicing when you feel like it is not the same as discipline.”

There was a brief silence, the kind that wasn’t empty but full of things waiting to be said.

“You have an opportunity most witches would dream of,” her mother said gently, though there was insistence beneath it. “We just want you to take it seriously.”

Marisol lifted her eyes. “And what if I don’t want that opportunity?”

Her father set his fork down, the small sound sharper than it should have been. “This isn’t about what you want right now.”

“It’s literally about my life.”

“It’s about your future,” he corrected.

“My future is here.”

“Your future is bigger than this island.”

Marisol shook her head, a small, disbelieving movement. “You always say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Before either of them could respond, a soft flutter cut through the tension. An owl landed lightly along the open hallway, its wings folding into stillness as if it had always been part of the house.

Marisol froze.

“No…” she whispered, already knowing.

Her father stood immediately, reaching for the letter tied to its leg, while her mother watched with quiet certainty. “It’s from the academy.”

“I know,” Marisol said, her voice low.

He broke the seal and read, and for a moment nothing changed, then something small shifted in his expression—just enough.

“Well?” her mother asked.

He looked at Marisol. “You’ve been given a task. An enchanted object. Your own creation.”

Marisol felt her stomach drop.

“And an English evaluation,” he added.

She exhaled slowly. “That’s fine.”

“The enchantment is not,” he said.

Silence settled again, heavier this time.

“You’ll need to work harder,” her mother said.

“I am working.”

“Not enough.”

“I said I am—”

“Marisol.”

Her father’s voice stopped her.

“If you don’t pass this…” He hesitated, just for a moment. “You’ll go to Mérida.”

She stared at him. “No.”

“To your aunt Andalucía.”

“No.”

“For a year.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“We are.”

The words landed, and something in her tightened so quickly it almost hurt.

She didn’t wait for the conversation to continue. Marisol pushed her chair back and stood, the sound scraping louder than she intended, and walked away from the table with her chest tight and her thoughts louder than anything they could have said.

She escaped to the hammock, wrapping herself tightly in its woven fabric until it held her like a cocoon, like something that could keep the world out for a while. She stayed there even after their voices faded, the anger still sharp under her skin, tangled with something softer and harder to name—fear, maybe, or the quiet realization that this time they meant it.

Salado appeared not long after, leaping softly onto the hammock and settling on top of her as if he had always been there. His black fur, warmed and slightly bleached by the sun, carried the faint smell of salt and sand, and when she reached up to touch him, he answered with a low, steady purr that vibrated gently through both of them.

“Hi, Sal…” she murmured, her voice barely above a breath.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound ground her. “What am I supposed to do?”

Sal blinked slowly, as if he already knew something she didn’t.

Through the small openings in the hammock’s weave, she watched the garden, the leaves moving gently in the evening breeze, swaying to the soft rhythm of bossa nova drifting from her grandfather’s old radio—the one she always turned on during dinner, because it made the house feel full again, as if her grandparents were still there, sitting at the table, laughing, defending her, telling stories about the sea.

Leaving this place wouldn’t just mean leaving home.

It would mean leaving them too.

And even as that thought settled, quiet and heavy, something deeper in her refused to accept it, like a part of her already knew that whatever was coming—whatever had begun out there on the water—was not going to let her go so easily.