11 November 2025
Deep in the overgrown garden behind a half-forgotten cottage, she lived. She carried a wand, a snapped twig bound with ribbon and glitter. Whenever she came upon disorder, muddy footprints, leaves on the path, dishes stacked and spotted with rain, she would frown, raise her wand, and whisper solemnly, “Fix.”
Her eyes would glaze. The twig would slip from her hand as she pulled on yellow marigold gloves and a plastic apron from her pocket. What followed was a quiet frenzy, as she scrubbed, swept, and polished her movements sharp, mechanical, and urgent. She never seemed to breathe until the mess was gone. Then, as if a switch flipped, she would stop. The trance would fade. She’d blink, dazed, and glance around at the transformed space, gleaming, perfect, still.
Her gloves would be gone by then, tucked neatly away. The wand, lying nearby, would catch her eye. She’d lift it with wonder, smiling wide. “Oh!” she’d whisper. “It worked again.” And off she’d skip into the garden, proud and untroubled, leaving behind the faint smell of bleach and a spotless world she believed had been touched by magic.
The Delusional Fairy • Opuss № I