LexTalk

Once, in a town where the sun shone bright, but the shadows stretched long, there lived a woman who was unseen. Not because she was a ghost, nor because she lacked presence, but because the people of the town chose not to see her.

She would walk into shops, her smile warm, her voice kind, yet the shopkeeper’s eyes would slide past her as if she were made of mist. She would wave at the villagers, only to be met with narrowed eyes and lips pressed into thin, disapproving lines. Even when she stood at the edges of gatherings, offering kindness, her words would die before they reached open ears.

She was there, and yet… she wasn’t.

But the woman was no ordinary woman. She was a witch, though not the kind who cackled over cauldrons or cast spells with flicks of her wrist. No, she was a witch of quiet power – of knowing glances and whispered truths, of moonlit revelations and the kind of magic that hummed in the bones.

She did not know why the town treated her this way, only that the weight of it settled over her shoulders like a heavy cloak. And so, she bore it, day after day, until the day she met the Serpent.

The Serpent did not slither upon the earth, nor did it bare fangs – no, it was a woman with eyes like polished stone and a voice like honey dripped from a poisoned blade. She smiled only when it served her, laughed only when she could feel the power shift in her favor. She had been cast out once for her cruelty, but serpents always find their way back into the garden

The Serpent saw the witch, of course. She did not ignore her like the others. No, the Serpent acknowledged her – but only to coil near, to invade her space, to exhale slow and deliberate, waiting for her to flinch.

The witch knew the game. She had read of it in old books and seen it written in the stars. The Serpent thrived on power, and power, like fire, must be fed.

And so, the Serpent slithered closer. She whispered to others, ensuring their gazes would pass over the witch. She sat near her, silent yet loud in her presence, her shadows stretching long to swallow all warmth. The witch felt the pull, the temptation to shrink, to lower her eyes, to surrender to the spell of invisibility.

But she was no ordinary woman.

One evening, when the moon was high and silver light poured into her window, the witch sat before her mirror. She traced symbols into the air, old words passed from lips of women who had been made small for too long.

I see me. I hear me. I name myself.

The words were not loud. They did not shatter windows or summon storms. But they wove around her like spun gold, a cloak far stronger than the one the world had draped over her.

The next day, she walked through the town, and though the people still refused to see her, she saw herself. When the Serpent coiled near, waiting for her to bow her head, the witch smiled – a slow, knowing thing. And in that moment, something shifted.

The Serpent blinked, sensing the change, though she could not name it.

The town still tried to pretend she did not exist, but it no longer mattered, for the witch had remembered her own magic. She carried herself like the goddess she was, her head high, her presence a quiet storm. And in time, the people – small-minded and dull – began to shift, sensing her power even if they could not understand it.

For there is no force greater than a woman who refuses to be made invisible.

A Note for the Ones Who Feel Unseen:

You are not invisible. You are not small. The world will try to dim you, but they cannot steal your light unless you hand it to them. Stand tall. Speak your name. Do not fear the Serpents – they hiss because they are afraid of what they cannot control.

And when the weight of it feels unbearable, go to your mirror, light a candle, and whisper:

I see me. I hear me. I name myself.