Welcome to Homeground!

Mother always told me to avoid the coffee shop that smelled like gingerbread. 

“Witches,” her brittle voice would whisper, “There are witches in that shop.”

The shop didn’t seem like it was full of witches. There were no black cats sitting on the sidewalk or spiders hanging from the eaves. And it felt, well, homey. But Mom’s nails always dug gouges into my arm when we walked by, as if she thought I would try diving through the doors in search of a tasty treat. To be fair, I probably would’ve. It’s not my fault the damn place smelled like all the tastiest, sugar-laden parts of Christmas.

I always wondered about that shop. You might be asking why I didn’t sneak in at some point. Children, and teenagers too, are usually quite good at ending up where they’re not supposed to be. But Mom never let me go near the shop alone, and when I was old enough to get a car she did what any good, paranoid parent whispering about witches would do - get Life360, pop an AirTag on my car, and track my every move. So no, I never got to investigate the mystery of the shop witches. And I never would, because today was the day I left Virginia behind for my new life at college.

So far, it was going great. My room was set up, my classes were scheduled, and all there was left to do was say goodbye to Mom.

“Be careful,” she warned as we stood outside her car, “Don’t stray too far from campus, especially alone. And don’t listen to any strangers with the-”

“-brand lines on their inner forearms.” I rolled my eyes. “I know, Mom. Though I’ve literally never seen anyone with them other than that one time, so I don’t think it’s going to be much of a problem.”

She pursed her lips, running her slightly wrinkled fingers down my forearms as if checking to make sure my skin was still unblemished.

“Be careful.”

Then she was gone, rattling down the street in our old van. As a going-away gift, Mom had agreed to stop tracking my phone. For the first time in 18 years, I was on my own.

At first, I minded her warnings carefully. But as the days slipped by, the vigilance instilled by my mother began to slip. And on one particularly rough Thursday night, I found myself alone on a street corner about 15 minutes south of campus, breathing in the familiar scent of warm gingerbread. 

Right before my eyes, the coffee shop spilled its warm yellow light out onto the street. And I mean, THE coffee shop. No, it wasn’t a chain. That was my first thought too, but as I peered through the window I realized that everything, down to the location of the potted plants and the order of the hanging mugs, was exactly identical. I might have been able to convince myself that I was dreaming. Or maybe that the managers in this franchise were just EXTREMELY picky about the placement of their decor. But it was that scent, that mix of spices that smelled so much like holidays and comfort and home, that told me I wasn’t hallucinating. Somehow, the coffee shop had teleported itself roughly 700 miles from Virginia to Illinois. 

So maybe my mother wasn’t as insane as I thought. Or maybe I was the one going insane. I rubbed my eyes. The shop was still there. I plugged my nose. Still there. I rubbed my eyes and plugged my nose. It was still there. And when I unplugged my nose, it still smelled like gingerbread. My stomach grumbled. Come to think of it, I really could go for some gingerbread right now. I mean, it had been a long day. I deserved some gingerbread. Surely the witches (not that I believed there were any witches) couldn’t get too mad at someone asking for gingerbread. And Mom wasn’t even around to yell at me! 

As if all this justification was necessary. I mean, of course I went in. That’s really the only reasonable thing to do when faced with a teleporting coffee shop. 

“Welcome to Homeground! What can I get you this evening?”

I was greeted by a smiling young man in a black shirt and white barista’s apron. All around me, patrons sat at cozy wooden tables, murmuring conversation into the comforting yellow glow. To be frank, it all looked disappointingly normal.

“Oh- um, well. I thought I smelled gingerbread? From outside? I mean, I know it’s kinda weird for a coffee shop to have gingerbread so if you don’t that’s fine but-“

I swear I don’t normally stutter around like that. But you know that feeling when you walk in the door of a small shop and you get practically jumped by the employees? That’s the speed at which this man had greeted me. It left literally no time to think. At least this overeager barista seemed benevolent, because my stammering was quickly interrupted by surprisingly warm laughter. 

“If it’s gingerbread you want, it’s gingerbread you’ll get. Anything to drink with that?”

I looked around for a menu, but there was nothing. Not even a sheet of paper taped to the counter. Weird.

“Whatever you want, we’ve got it,” he interrupted my confusion.

I paused.

“Anything?”

“Yup,” he said, popping the “p”. 

“Spiced apple cider?”

“You got it.”

While he ducked off to ready my order of things no normal coffee shop would carry unless it was the holidays, I took the opportunity to investigate my surroundings a little more closely. The walls were built of sturdy red brick, and flourishing green plants were potted all around the room. The entire building was immaculate, which was strange considering the only employee in sight was the barista currently behind the counter. It seemed like a big ask for a single employee to manage an entire coffee shop by themselves, especially with all these children running around.

Speaking of which, why were so many children turned loose at a coffee shop? They were everywhere! Talking to customers, behind the counter, cleaning tables… oh. Oh hell no. This smiley bastard was using child labor to run his cozy little shop.

“One square of gingerbread and one spiced apple cider for the lady.”

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. With food. Apparently. I took it with a smile that was more like baring my teeth, but he didn’t miss a beat.

“Feel free to sit wherever you’d like, and don’t worry about bringing up any of the dishes. Someone will be around to take them once you’re finished.”

“Yeah, ‘someone’ will be,” I muttered as he wandered away. 

I chose a seat tucked in the corner by the window. Warmth from the mug tickled its way across my palms and fingers. I briefly considered ditching the drink and bread in an act of protest, but I had already paid. I might as well enjoy it. Maybe I could leave the kids a good tip before I took off and reported their boss to the Department of Labor. 

I let my eyes wander around the room. No one else seemed concerned, which was more than a little bit strange. And sometimes the plants would seem to, I don’t know, move when I took my eyes off of them for a second. But that was probably just a trick of the light.

My little observation time ended when I made awkwardly long eye-contact with a man in a blue baseball cap across the room. My first instinct was to take a big gulp of my drink and pretend I hadn’t just been watching everyone from my corner like some weirdo. Unfortunately for me, the cider was still scorching hot and it took all of my self control to refrain from spraying it across the pretty walnut table. 

“Are you okay?”

I was startled out of my cider-induced misery by the barista, who had somehow crept up on me.

“Fine,” I smiled tightly, cheeks flaming in embarrassment, “I just-”

The kids had beards. And little wrinkled faces. With big, floppy ears. In fact, they weren’t kids at all. Each and every child, except the real(?) children brought by patrons, had just been replaced by a wrinkly little man in cheery, colorful clothing.

“Yes?” the barista prompted, eyebrows creased in concern.

“Those were children.” I pointed at the little men. “Two seconds ago, those were children.”

“What? Oh, yes, the gnomes. They’re very helpful.”

I may or may not have squeaked.

“What do you mean, the gnomes?” 

“I mean the little men that you thought were children. The gnomes.”

He looked like he was fighting a smile.

“You know that’s not what I meant you-”

Now he was laughing. The bastard was actually laughing.

“Sorry, it’s just,” he fanned his face for a moment, “You guys always have the best expressions.”

He pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down across from me. 

“We don’t tend to get regular people that often. Most customers here had their eyes opened to the Otherworld when they were little. Every once in a while a stray wanders through the wards by mistake and we have to guide them back out again.” He rolled his eyes, as though this was a particularly tedious task. “But sometimes, we get fun ones. Like you!”

“So you aren’t breaking child labor laws?”

“What? No! Of course not!” He looked genuinely offended. “Why would you think that?!”

I shot a pointed look at the wrinkly little not-children.

“Oh, right. Yes, of course. Forgot about that. But no need to worry, these guys are all ancient. Far older than us.”

And they sure did look it. I had just opened my mouth again when I was rather rudely interrupted by a fern on the windowsill. In the blink of an eye, one of its fronds had shot up ramrod straight and pointed itself directly at a gnome that was currently side-eyeing my companion rather suspiciously.

“Bartholomew,” the barista warned as the gnome’s hand crept toward a discarded cup of coffee, “Don’t.”

The hand kept moving.

“I’m serious, Bartholomew. I’m not going hiking down to Shreya’s before Wednesday, so please don’t-”

Too late. The gnome snatched the cup and downed its contents, licking his lips with satisfaction. Then he exploded into a column of fire.

“BARTHOLOMEW!” the barista screeched as he rocketed out of his chair, “Not AGAIN-” 

He cut himself off with an abrupt cough, as though suddenly aware that the entire shop had turned toward the scene.

“It’s fine, everyone,” he called rather awkwardly, “Don’t worry, I’ll get him fixed up by the end of next week.”

He weaved his way through chairs until he reached the location formerly occupied by a pillar of fire and bent down, retrieving what looked like a little rock. As he returned to the table, blowing it clean of soot, I realized it was, in fact, a little rock engraved with a glowing green symbol. He slipped it into his pocket before I could get a good look at it. 

“Sorry about that.” He raked his fingers through his dirty blond hair exasperatedly. “Bartholomew likes to play with things that make him, well, combust.”

I blinked.

“You mean he’s exploded before?”

“Oh, yeah. Loads of times. It's a bit annoying, really. I have to keep getting Shreya to reincarnate him. I’m a weaver, ya know, so I can’t just do it myself. Only melders can do that stuff.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. This was going to be a long night.