Maren Elling arrived in Willowsport on a morning when the sea was a freshly washed blue and the sky was adorned with cotton candy clouds. Having just completed her apprenticeship, she had set out to find her place in the world and was riding her broom along the coastline with no destination in mind except somewhere she might feel at home.
Sitting perched near the tip of her broomstick, her familiar Pip flicked his tail in disapproval every time a gust of wind jostled them, though he was secretly loving the view and very much enjoying the journey.
She followed the cliffs for miles, letting the breeze carry her wherever it pleased. And then, as she rounded a curve where the land dipped steep and sudden, she saw it.
A town nestled against the cliffs like a cluster of pastel seashells. Terracotta roofs stacked in cozy, mismatched layers. Narrow ribbon-like streets tumbling toward a small harbor where boats bobbed sleepily. Window boxes spilled bright pops of flowers or trailed long strands of ivy that overflowed the edges and above, white gulls circling lazily as though gossiping about the morning tide.
And at the heart of the town center, stood a graceful willow tree. It shimmered just a little in Maren’s witch-sight, as though it recognized her.
Her breath caught.
Pip let out a soft questioning chirp, but she was already descending.
Maren landed on a sun-warmed stone street and stood very still, letting the air settle around her. The scent of sea salt mingled with warm bread somewhere nearby—though she would later learn that no bakery existed then. Perhaps it was a trick of the wind, or a whisper of future possibility.
Willowsport felt like a place the wind visited to rest. It felt gentle. Safe. Magic-adjacent in the way certain places are without ever naming it.
She wandered through town, Pip prancing beside her with his white heart-shaped chest patch catching the light like a tiny lantern. The locals greeted her with the sort of easy friendliness reserved for travelers who look like they might become neighbors.
Maren had grown up in a family of sea witches, they were well known wind workers, storm-tamers, tide callers. Yet her own gift had blossomed in the quiet corners: in kitchens, in hearths, in ovens. Warmth was her magic. A soft, steady, domestic kind of enchantment that coaxed comfort into the world. She hummed to her dough; it rose sweeter. She poured intention into pastries; they carried emotions like delicate notes in the crumb.
She’d always wondered where such magic belonged.
Now she thought perhaps she knew.
Her wandering feet carried her through the town, where hand-painted signs swayed gently in the breeze. And there, tucked between a clockmaker and a bookbinder, a tiny brick storefront waited.
Crooked shutters. A faded crescent-shaped sign. Dusty windows. A lopsided FOR SALE placard. It was unremarkable in a way that tugged at her heart.
Inside, it smelled of old stone, forgotten stories, and something faintly sweet, like the ghost of herbs once hung to dry. Sunlight slanted through a high window, illuminating the old brick oven in the corner. And leaning against the corner of the room was a broom.
Reaching out for it, the broom warmed and thrummed ever so slightly beneath her touch. Not hot. Not bright. Just warm. Like recognition. Maren smiled the kind of smile that felt like coming home.
She bought the shop before sunset.
On her first night there, Pip hopped onto the oven and sniffed the air with approval, meowing softly to get Maren’s attention. Turning to her familiar she approached with her hand outstretched to gently scratch that spot under his chin, but as she did, something deep inside the oven shuffled ever so slightly making Maren pause. Did she imagine it? Bending down and peering in, she held her breath and waited and there, in the far back corner was a glow so small and faint it almost wasn’t there at all.
With a delighted squeal that made Pip brittle in surprise, Maren scuttled outside and fetched a log from the pile out back. Then she reached her hand into the oven and began chanting softly, soothingly until the faint light grew a little brighter, then brighter still. Finally, the little forgotten fire spirit that resided in the hearth sprang to life onto her offered tinder and the moment it did it was as if a wash of warmth and color flooded the little shop. Pip seemed to consider this and then with a chirrup, settled before the fire with a yawn.
Over the following days, she set about to tidy up her new home. She set all the dust spirits free and cleaned the windows until light danced across the floor. She scrubbed the counters, opened every shutter, and welcomed the sea breeze inside. In the small backyard that overlooked the ocean, she pulled all the weeds out and planted an herb garden. In the front, she filled the flower boxes with fresh blossoms. And finally, she hung the old broom above the door, a nod to the hedgewitch who'd resided there years before. And early one morning, with Pip supervising from the windowsill, she baked her first batch of loaves in the oven, and thanks to the gentle fire spirit, she’d named Sootsol, they all came out perfectly; warm, crusty, golden and yeasty.
Everything was set and ready.
When she next opened the door, steam curling into the golden air, Broom and Butter was opened for business and Willowsport welcomed her fully.
Mrs. Adler from the flower shop brought marigolds “to keep the sunshine near.”
The harbormaster wandered in, took one bite of her bread, and declared it “dangerously good.”
Children left daisies on the windowsill for “the nice lady with the magical smile.”
They felt her magic in subtle ways, waves of comfort, easy laughter, a strange lightness in the chest after finishing a bun, but never suspected a thing. Willowsport didn’t analyze goodness. It merely appreciated it.
And so Broom & Butter Bakery became a quiet landmark.
Each morning, Maren rose before dawn. She tied her apron on, collected her herbs, and greeted her shop before getting to work. When the sun began to crest in the morning sky, she’d open the windows and the seaside breeze would flow in, tugging playfully at the rising loaves. Pip sensed the emotional weather of the town from his perch; if he tapped her hand with his paw, she knew to fold a little extra sunshine into whatever she shaped next. If he nudged her arm with his soft nose, she knew to stretch out the dough to catch a little more wind before folding it over.
You see, her pastries carried gentle enchantments:
Rosemary-flecked bread to ground wandering hearts
Lemon glaze to chase away gloom
Honeyed-apple cakes that soothed the soul
Chocolate knots that anchored joy
Cinnamon twists that sparked creativity
Peach buns that warmed tender memories
People said her treats tasted like comfort or like a feeling they thought they’d long forgotten. Children swore the bakery smelled different with each breath they took. Old sailors said her bread kept them steady in rough seas. Tourists claimed the shop felt like something right out of a childhood storybook.
And Maren; quiet, warm, mischievous in the soft way of hearth witches simply smiled and dusted the flour off her apron with a quick almost-always-missed wink at either Pip or Sootsol.
And the truth of the matter was that Willowsport was already an enchanted place, even if no one said it out loud. A place where breezes carried secrets but never harm, where old brooms remembered past witches, where kindness lived in the corners of cobbled streets.
All Maren did was coax that sweetness a little closer to the surface.
No one in town knew she was a witch, but if they ever learned the truth, they’d only shrug and say: “Of course she is. How else could her cakes taste like sunshine?”
And from her warm little bakery between the bookbinder and the clockmaker, with Pip watching the world from the window and the Sootsol humming inside the oven, Maren Elling had finally found her place, a place where her magic fit perfectly, rising like bread, in the gentle light of seaside town of Willowsport.
So if you ever happen to stop by this wonderfully enchanted little town, and find yourself strolling along the winding cobbled streets, be sure to stop by Broom & Butter and meet Maren, say hi to a Pip, offer some kindling to Sootsol, and of course, treat yourself to some delightful baked goods that were made with love and just a tiny pinch of magic.
____________________________________________
*Get ready! Maren's Broom & Butter Bakery opens on Feb 13th!
