Tucked between a sporemonger and an arborist for treants, sat a modest florist shop unlike any other in the Night Market. No sign above the door, only a small wooden plaque etched with a circle of roses, thorns and a tiny urn.

  Inside, the air was thick with the scent of soil and fragrant lavender, crushed medicinal herbs and rich compost. Plants lined the walls in terracotta pots with some being ordinary in appearance, yet some glowing faintly or humming when touched.

  At the center of it all stood the Green Witch. She appeared to be a middle aged woman, still in her prime with chestnut hair and hazel green eyes. She wore a simple pointed hat, comfortable robes and muddy boots. Her apron was dirt-streaked linen, frayed at the edges. Her fingers were moss-stained yet her eyes shimmered like dew on new leaves catching the dawn's light as she worked to bolster the life force of a new plant. These plants did more than liven up one's living space, they offered rest to the departed.

  When people died and the grief was too raw, too vast to release normally, they came to her. Not for resurrection or other such black magic. Not for contact or other common street magic foolery. But for that final release, closure to help send off one's soul. She brought the knowledge of plants and flora-resonance, and they brought ashes of their beloved.

  The Worn Widower

  He was tall and soft-spoken, eyes heavy with emotion, spine bent from the weight of all these years walking the mortal realm. In his soft yet weathered hands: a lacquered urn carved with twin moons.

  “My husband,” he whispered. “He was… stronger than I ever was. He held us both up. I.. I just want to do right by him, one last time.”

  The Green Witch took the urn, closed her eyes, and listened.

  From the ashes rose a presence, dignified, steady, strong yet warm. She placed the ashes into a wide clay pot and nestled within it a sapling tree: a dogwood, strong yet brilliant in full bloom.

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  “It will grow steadily,” she said, “and it will never falter. When the wind brushes its leaves, you will hear his voice calling your name. When the petals shed, you will feel his touch.”

  The widower wept deeply but when he left, he stood a little taller.

  The Fleeting Friend

  They arrived in silence while it rained gently outside. A mother, father, and a little girl clutching a box tied in string.

  The Green Witch greeted them both kindly, before kneeling down to greet the little girl. The little girl avoided eye contact at first, gripping the box tightly. "Hello, miss Amy. Pray tell, what as your little friend's name?" she asked, gently.

  “His name was Buttons,” the girl replied, said with a trembling lip. “He followed me everywhere. To school, to bed, even the bath.”

  The Green Witch gently untied the string, opened the box, and feeling one of the tiniest souls she’d ever met, bright and tail-wagging even in death. A spark to this soul, a bouncing vibrant energy.

  She found a large pot, filled it with sun-blessed soil, and planted a primrose bush that was pink, perky, and already in bloom.

  “This one will blossom no matter the season,” she told the girl. “It will be a bit messy and wild and with whose petals might stain the curtains. But it will always greet the sun.”

  The girl giggled, just once, but it was enough, and the most she fun she had since her fleeting friend had departed.

  The Dutiful Daughter

  She came in alone. Her posture was rigid, her grip white-knuckled around the simple ceramic jar. No decoration. No sentiment. On either the urn or the woman.

  “This.. this was my mother. I need to find closure on.. on this.. whole thing.”

  The Green Witch nodded and took the jar.

  The air changed. From the ashes rose a suffocating presence that was sharp-edged and angry, yet cold as stone. The Green Witch recoiled slightly but did not give way to this vulgar energy. It was self-focused, hateful and violent, someone that should have never been a mother. Someone that wasn't owed any respect from anyone that had the misfortune to cross her in life.

  She pulled a deep yet narrow pot from a high shelf. Into it, she pressed the saw green-brier, a plant that choked all life in its own pot, curled inward even as it struggled toward the sun. It was toxic to everything around it, but could do little to thrive in such a pot. It would struggle against itself, until finally it succumbed to its ugly and fatal tendencies of self absorption.

  “This one will not bloom easily,” she said. “Its roots are twisted. It will spend its days fighting itself. But it will serve a purpose.”

  The daughter narrowed her eyes, not quite looking at the urn. She still frowned, reluctant to proceed in her body language.

  “It will direct her soul with its own violent aura,” the witch said softly. “Some spirits cannot rest until they’ve been taught, lesson after lesson. This plant will teach gladly. This plant will see her to the correct afterlife.”

  The daughter stared at the thorns. At the soil. At the chance for closure not through love, but through final judgment.

  Her fingers hovering over the rim of the pot. Ashes in one hand. A choice in the other.

  The green witch said nothing more. Some decisions must germinate on their own.