In the heart of a city that never stopped humming, there was a secret garden, fenced in by rusted iron and sheltered by overgrown morning glory vines. The vibrant blue and purple blossoms peeked through the cracks, enticing curious passersby who would never guess the magic simmering within. This garden belonged to Maeve, a young kitchen witch with a knack for coaxing spells from herbs, spices, and flowers.

Maeve had lived in her grandmother’s house for as long as she could remember, the garden now fully her own since the old woman passed away a year ago. She inherited not only the garden but the lore whispered in the clinking of teaspoons and the soft rustling of leaves. The garden was more than a collection of plants; it was alive, responsive, a reflection of her grandmother’s magic and care. And this morning, that lore had led her to the morning glories.

“You’re not just flowers, are you?” Maeve murmured, fingers brushing against the soft petals. They shivered at her touch, swaying as though nodding in response. Maeve gave a small smile, her lips stained red from a stolen nibble of pomegranate, the sort of offering her grandmother had always said sweetened the intentions of magic. She remembered her grandmother’s laugh, the crinkle of her eyes, the scent of rosemary clinging to her clothes. Every moment in the garden felt like she was retracing her grandmother’s footsteps.

With a glance to ensure her nosy neighbor, Mr. Albright, wasn’t at his window, she searched among the vines for the dried, papery seed pods left behind after the blooms had faded. Today, Maeve was going to extract LSA—the potent compound hidden within the seeds. She had read about its uses in her grandmother’s old journals, which spoke of journeys of the mind, pathways that unfolded into other realms. This was more than just a chemical—it was a connection to the past, a way to bridge the gap between the world she knew and the magic that lay beyond.

She took her harvest back into her kitchen, a cozy room that smelled like cinnamon, rosemary, and something ineffably magic. The morning light filtered through lace curtains, illuminating jars filled with herbs and powders of every imaginable color. Maeve set the seed pods on the wooden countertop, reaching for the mortar and pestle her grandmother had used for years. It was smooth from use, holding memories in its surface—the echoes of past spells ground between the stone.

As she worked, crushing the seeds with deliberate care, she whispered incantations under her breath. The magic wasn’t just in the ingredients, her grandmother had taught her; it was in the intention, in the rhythm of her words, in the pulse of her heart that resonated with the earth. Maeve poured the crushed seeds into a small vial, but instead of creating a potion, she used her magic to draw out the compound, enhancing its potency.

She watched as a shimmering, silvery mist began to swirl above the vial, condensing into a droplet of pure essence. It wasn’t just a chemical now—it was something more, something imbued with her own magic. This extract was a key, not just to visions, but to unlocking deeper layers of magic that could connect her to the past, to her grandmother’s coven, and to the magic that thrived unseen. Maeve hesitated for a moment, the weight of what she was about to do settling in her chest. The journals spoke of visions—of glimpses into realms that the waking eye could never see. She wanted that. She wanted to see the threads that tied her to her grandmother, to the garden, to the world beyond what she could touch.

With a deep breath, Maeve took the vial to her lips, letting a single drop fall onto her tongue. The taste was bitter, earthy, and her nose crinkled at the tang. She closed her eyes and waited.

It started as a warmth in her chest, spreading outward, a gentle pulse that matched her heartbeat. Maeve opened her eyes, and the kitchen seemed to shimmer at the edges, the light bending in ways it hadn’t before. The walls of her home shifted, revealing hints of the garden beyond, though she was still inside. Tendrils of morning glory vines crept through the cracks, their blossoms opening to reveal tiny, glowing orbs within—each one a memory, a story, a fragment of magic.

The air grew thick with enchantment, the scent of herbs intensifying as the magic within the house seemed to awaken. The jars on her shelves began to rattle, the dried herbs inside coming to life, swirling in a dance of vibrant greens and golds. Maeve could feel the energy coursing through her, her senses heightened as she became acutely aware of every magical thread woven into the fabric of her home.

One of the blossoms opened wide, and Maeve found herself looking at her grandmother, standing in this very kitchen, her hands dusted with flour, her eyes bright as she laughed at something unseen. The image was warm, vivid, and tears pricked at Maeve’s eyes. She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the vision, and it burst into a swirl of petals that filled the air, wrapping around her in a fragrant embrace.

The room shifted again, and suddenly, Maeve felt a tug at her core, pulling her deeper into the vision. She saw herself standing in the garden, but the garden was different—more alive, more vibrant. The flowers glowed with an inner light, and the vines moved of their own accord, curling around her protectively. Spirits, shimmering and ethereal, drifted among the plants, their forms shifting like mist. One of them, a tall figure with eyes like stars, extended a hand toward Maeve.

“Child of the garden,” the spirit whispered, its voice like wind rustling through leaves. “You have awakened the ancient bonds. The magic of your lineage runs deep.”

Maeve took the spirit’s hand, feeling a surge of power rush through her. The garden around her seemed to expand, the boundaries melting away as she caught glimpses of other realms—realms filled with towering crystal trees, rivers of molten silver, and skies that shimmered with a thousand colors. She could feel the connection between her garden and these distant places, the magic flowing like a river, binding them together.

The spirits danced around her, their laughter echoing in her ears, and Maeve felt herself lifted off the ground, her body weightless as she spun with them. She could feel the magic in every fiber of her being, a wild, untamed force that filled her with both awe and a deep sense of belonging. She was not just a kitchen witch—she was a guardian of the old ways, a bridge between worlds.

Suddenly, Maeve felt a presence beside her—a circle of witches, their hands joined as they stood at the edge of the garden. They were green witches, each one with a crown of leaves and flowers, their eyes glowing with power. Maeve knew them; they were the coven her grandmother had once been part of. She could feel their energy, their support, as they joined her in the dance, their magic mingling with hers, amplifying the connection to the realms beyond.

One witch stepped forward—a woman with hair like ivy, her eyes dark and kind. “We have been waiting for you, Maeve,” she said softly. “Your grandmother always knew you would find your way to us.”

Maeve felt a rush of warmth at the words, a sense of purpose settling into her bones. She was not alone. The garden, the spirits, the coven—they were all a part of her journey. She could feel the bond with them growing stronger, the magic flowing between them like the roots of an ancient tree.

The witch with ivy-like hair held out a small charm—a pendant shaped like a morning glory bloom, intricately carved from a piece of dark green stone. She pressed it into Maeve’s hand. “This is our symbol, the morning glory. It represents the bond between our coven and the garden, a reminder of the power that blooms in the most unexpected places. Wear it, and you will always be able to find us, no matter how far your journey takes you.”

Maeve closed her fingers around the pendant, feeling the magic thrumming within it, resonating with her own. It was a promise, a link to her coven and to the magic that connected them all. She slipped the pendant around her neck, the cool stone resting against her skin, and felt an immediate surge of energy—an affirmation of her place among them.

When the vision finally began to fade, Maeve found herself back in her kitchen, the vial empty in her hand, her knees weak as she leaned against the counter for support. The morning glories on the table were still, their petals now a soft, muted blue. The air was thick with the lingering scent of magic, and the jars on her shelves had settled, their contents once again at rest. Maeve smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek as she whispered, “Thank you.”

She knew she would return to the morning glories again—that this was only the beginning of her journey. There was so much more to see, to learn, to feel. And as the sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, Maeve felt the magic settle into her bones, a promise of the wonders yet to come.