Sera found herself thinking about snow globes again, and it struck her that no matter how much she missed her magic, no matter how deeply she ached for it, this inn, with all its creaks and groans and inconveniences, was no snow globe. It was her home, where she knew the story of every dent and scar, where the notches on that doorframe over there told the tale of Jasmine measuring Sera’s height every year until she was thirteen, and the scorch marks on Sera’s bedroom wall spun a fable about a little girl casting her first spell. Here, the handmade curtains on the windows had laughter stitched
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