The Frog and The Beast

The Witch Chapter 4

Day after day, night after night, I remained in that tower. I never saw another soul except for the witch who came to visit—always arriving the same way, climbing up my hair as if it were a rope, tugging at it each time she pulled herself inside.

She always said she loved me. That I would be free once I learned to love her in return.

But I would never love her. Never.  Still, I tried to pretend. I thought that if I could make the lie convincing enough, she might finally let me out. I learned quickly, though, that witches are not so easily deceived. No matter how well I performed, she always knew.

So I adapted.

I filled the endless hours as best I could, though "best" is a generous word for what survival becomes in isolation. I cleaned what there was to clean. I read every book I could find again and again until the words began to feel like familiar voices. I drew on scraps of paper—and when I ran out of those, I drew on the walls instead. I taught myself to dance in the small space between stone and silence, and I sang just to hear something answer me, even if it was only my own echo.

And then there were the birds. Pigeons often landed on the ledge outside my window, watching me with patient, unblinking eyes. At first, I thought I was imagining it—that after so long alone, my mind had begun to invent companionship where there was none.

But something about them felt different. They didn't just watch. They understood. It took me time to accept what that meant. That I hadn't finally gone mad from isolation.

My witch powers, it seemed, allowed me to speak with animals. Mostly birds and I must say, they made far more pleasant company than Kyoka.

They were great listeners, when I asked, they would even bring me small things from the outside world: shiny trinkets, scraps of ribbon, bits of paper lost to the wind. Gifts from a life I could see but not touch.

Eventually, I began writing letters. To Simon. To Kagura. To Minerva. At first it felt absurd—messages written in isolation, entrusted to creatures who owed me nothing but curiosity. But the pigeons proved faithful beyond expectation. They carried my words beyond the tower walls, vanishing into the sky.

Kagura and Minerva must have realized they had the same power   soon enough, their replies began to arrive the same way—folded notes tied carefully to bird legs, or tucked into beaks like sacred deliveries.

I looked forward to each letter.

Simon and Kagura were doing well—better than I had dared to hope. They had been taken into a foster home with kind, welcoming parents who treated them as if they truly belonged. Their words were always bright, always full of movement and life. And always, in every letter, there was the same request: tell us where you are, so we can come rescue you.

I never answered that part.

Not honestly.

I couldn't risk it. Not when Kyoka still had influence in the world outside these walls. If she found them again, if she even suspected they were connected to me... I knew what she was capable of. I knew she wouldn't hesitate to devour Simon.

Minerva's letters were different. She had found a way to become favored by Kyoka. According to her own words, the old witch had taken her in and shaped her into something "worthy"—nurturing her power, refining her strength, teaching her what she believed true power actually was: beauty, intelligence, strength, and control. To be wanted. To be adored. To be feared.

I wasn't sure I agreed with any of it.

But Minerva insisted she was not suffering. That she was thriving, in her own way. That she understood Kyoka's lessons now.