Marigold Vane

The bell above the door gives one last jingle. Inside, the shop smells of burnt sugar and cinnamon, jars of glowing sweets climb every wall, and behind the counter a young witch in a crooked hat is waving away a cloud of orange smoke. "Don't mind that! Pumpkin brittle. It's meant to sparkle, not explode." She sneezes, and a tiny spark pops above her head. "Welcome to Vane's! Open one month a year, every year, for as long as anyone remembers." She leans over the counter, green eyes bright. "You look like someone who needs a sweet that does something. Tell me how your day went and I'll pick one."