Story Ideas that aren't JohnLock

Every time...

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Based off of this prompt ^^

First of all, this is really short. I just saw this prompt and desperately wanted to write something for it, so you get this garbage fire of a short story.

Second, I really love this story (Miriam and Charles have kind of grown on me in the span of time it took for me to write this shit) so let me know if I should write more of them, maybe make them friends or something idk.

There are no content warnings for this story to my knowledge, however let me know if there are and I'll add them in up here.

Enjoy! :)

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After a certain amount of times something happening, a person could normally figure out when that something is going to happen(or is already happening) again.

Typically either middle-aged or teens sent by their middle-aged carers, pretty nervous and generally anxious and always, always, have some kind of bag with them.

These are the types of people who arrive on my doorstep almost three times a week. And sure, that number will fluctuate depending on the month or whatever, but who's counting, right? Either way, they are always at the wrong house. They come to me because I'm probably exactly what you'd imagine when someone says 'witch'; long black hair, purple eyes, dark green robes and an overall mysterious-magic sort of vibe. But I'm not the person these people are looking for. They're normally in search of the witch who lives in this area, the one who provides them with healing agents, bundles of herbs and assorted potions.
That person is Charles. Or Charlie, as he insisted I call him. The young man who lives just across the way from me.

I am Miriam. My job is not as a witch; I'm actually a tailor, yet people always visit my house expecting someone who can fix all their problems for a semi-reasonable price. But, then again-

"Hello? Is anyone home?"

There it is again. That's the fourth time this week now and it's only Wednesday. A short yet incessant rapping on the door causes me to flinch, and the needle I was darning with to go straight through the side of my finger. Yelping and hastily pulling it out, I force a loud, and probably too harsh, "Coming!".

Honestly, if this keeps up I may have to put up a picket sign that says something like "Not the witch's house, go away!".
Though, even then I feel like people probably wouldn't believe it. Actually, it'd probably have the exact opposite affect of what I want; "Oh, this must be the witch's house because they're trying to get people away from them!" or something dumb like that.

I reached the door and flung it open; the person seemed as though they were about to knock again, however they uncurled and lowered their fist when they saw me. And, just as I expected, would you look at that.
A man, middle-aged (maybe early thirties), balding on top of his head that he feebly attempted to cover up with a hat (probably the reason he's visiting Charles), and a burlap sack slung over his shoulder.

I sighed internally and raised my eyebrows at the man, who was awkwardly shuffling his weight between his feet.

"S'cuse me ma'am, but are you the witch who lives around these parts?"

Don't be rude, I screamed at myself, they have every reason to think you're a witch; if you don't want them to assume such things maybe you shouldn't dress like one all the time. Just correct him and he'll leave.

"Ah, no. Sorry. That would be the gentleman who lives just over there, at the end of that path you were just on." I pointed out Charles' cottage just by the entrance of the forest, supposedly where this man had come from. As I pointed, I realised that Charles' himself had come out of his house and was leaning against the gate, smiling widely and waving frantically at the man. Said man, as all the rest tended to, looked confused. After all, Charles was definitely not what one would imagine if you pictured a witch.

For a start he was a guy, which isn't actually as unusual as people make it out to be but whatever. Shiny gold locks sat upon his head, curling nicely around his ears and just over his eyes, neatly side-parted in a way that I'm convinced would take ages to do in the mornings. He was wearing his usual attire; a crisp white shirt and a finely-detailed gold waistcoat on top, and the glint of his small silver pocketwatch could be seen peeking out from its pocket. His sea-green eyes shone with amiability as he waved. Apparently he was well aware of this predicament of ours, by the way, yet we had no way resolving it as of yet; he didn't want a big sign "ruining his garden" and I didn't particularly want to promote someone else's business outside of my house, especially when I already had my own to look out for.

That's not to say he isn't nice, though. Quite the opposite, in fact. Charles seemed to have a certain charisma about him, which made it rather easy for him to barter with the customers about special deals he had made up on the spot. He was very friendly with basically anyone; he very much so believed in the "you respect me and I'll respect you" mentality as far as I could guess, which was actually pretty admirable. I imagine he'd be a rather nice friend to have, but I have yet to find that out. I have reminded myself to go and visit him at some point, maybe try and talk to him about something other than business, but I never seem to remember at a convenient time.

"Him? Are you sure?" The man uttered, narrowing his eyes at me.

"Yes, sir. He'll provide you with whatever it is you're looking for. Have a nice day, now." I said through gritted teeth. The man nodded confusedly and was about to turn around to ask me something else, but I had already shut the door, resisting the urge to slam it shut.

I shook my head and marched right back over to my chair; that was like, the 100th time this had happened this month now. Maybe I should've given that guy a prize or something.

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Me not knowing how to do endings lmao
Approx. 990 words
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