THE EVIL EYE

She didn’t believe in magic. But she missed it when it was gone

She settled into the hotel room, kicking off her shoes, ready for sleep. As she reached into her bag, her stomach sank. The pouch was gone.

It was small—about the size of a tea bag. Crocheted in colors so bright they bordered on garish, with the flair of a Jamaican sunset. A thin, black braided thread kept it tied shut. It had lived in her purse or on her desk since the day she got it, and it had never left her side—until now.

She felt suddenly exposed. Not in danger, exactly. Just…unprotected.

It had been a gift from the Healer. A woman recommended to her by someone she met only once, at a party. “It’ll do you good,” the woman had said, with a look that made it hard to argue.

So she went. She made the appointment without knowing what it would cost, or even what was being healed. It wasn’t her style. She liked control. Precision. She didn’t believe in energy, or aura, or ancestors whispering through candles.

But she stayed. For over an hour, she let herself be guided, prayed over, whispered to. She cried. Something had happened—something she didn’t understand.

And when she left, the Healer handed her the pouch. No explanation. Just a look, and a nod.

She had clutched it like it held the missing piece. Maybe it did.

And now, without it, she felt the pull of the invisible again—whatever she’d handed over in that room…whatever might be waiting to return.