The Botanica

La Botánica

The bell above the door chimed when he walked in—a man in an expensive suit looking completely out of place among my candles and santos.

"¿Puedo ayudarte?" I asked from behind the counter.

"I'm looking for..." He glanced at a piece of paper. "A limpia? Someone recommended—"

"A spiritual cleansing." I studied him—the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his energy felt like static. "You're carrying something heavy."

"Bad luck. That's what they called it. Business falling apart, relationship ended, can't sleep." He laughed bitterly. "I don't even believe in this stuff, but I'm desperate."

"The desperate ones always find their way here."

My name is Marisol, and I inherited this botánica from my grandmother, who inherited it from hers. Three generations of Cuban women selling hope in the form of candles, herbs, and prayers.

"Come to the back," I said, locking the door and flipping the sign to CLOSED.

"Is this where you murder me?"

"Only if you disrespect the process." I smiled. "Relax, gringo. I'm going to help you."

"I'm not a gringo. I'm half Colombian."

"Then you should know better than to doubt your abuela's traditions."

The back room was my sacred space—altars to the orishas, dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, a massage table covered in white cloth.

"Take off your shirt," I instructed.

"Excuse me?"

"The limpia requires skin contact." I gathered my supplies—egg, rosemary, Florida water. "Unless you want me to cleanse your suit jacket."

He hesitated, then complied. His body was lean, muscular, marked with stress in ways I could read like a book.

"Lie down. Close your eyes. And whatever happens, don't open them until I say."

I passed the egg over his body, drawing out the negative energy, murmuring prayers in Spanish that my grandmother taught me. His muscles twitched beneath my hands.

"You're very tense," I said.

"I told you. I can't sleep."

"Because you're holding on to something. Someone." The egg grew heavy in my hand—a sign. "A woman. She hurt you."

"How do you know that?"

"It's literally my job." I cracked the egg into a glass of water. "Look at this. See those threads? That's the damage she did. And this cloudiness? That's your own guilt."

He sat up, staring at the glass. "That's... that's just egg."

"Everything is just something until it becomes something else." I set the glass aside. "Your ex-wife. She blamed you for things that weren't your fault. And you believed her because it was easier than fighting."

"I never said I was married."

"You didn't have to." I touched the pale line on his ring finger. "The ghost is still there."

He grabbed my wrist—not hard, but firm. "Who are you?"

"Someone who sees things. Someone who helps." I didn't pull away. "Someone who knows you came here for more than a cleansing."

"I don't know what I came for."

"Yes, you do." I leaned closer. "You came because you've been drowning and you needed someone to see you. Really see you."

"And you see me?"

"Clearly."

He kissed me like a man who'd forgotten how. Desperate, seeking, hungry for something real.

"This is crazy," he breathed.

"The best things are." I pulled him off the table and toward the stairs that led to my apartment above the shop. "Let me finish what we started."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you came for healing." I unbuttoned his pants with steady hands. "Let me heal you."

I made love to him surrounded by candles and copal smoke, whispering prayers that became moans. His body released its tension inch by inch beneath my hands, my mouth, my guidance.

"I can sleep," he murmured after, half-dreaming already. "For the first time in months, I feel like I could sleep."

"Then sleep." I curled around him. "I'll be here when you wake."

"Who are you, Marisol?"

"Someone who believes in magic." I kissed his forehead. "And now, maybe, so do you."

He came back every week after that. For limpias, for candles, for me.

"People are going to talk," I said, watching him carry bags of groceries into my apartment. "Important businessman visiting the witch shop."

"Let them." He kissed me over a bag of avocados. "I don't care."

"And your business?"

"Turning around. Investors are calling again. Deals are closing." He smiled. "Must be the magic candles you keep burning."

"Or maybe it's you, finally believing you deserve good things."

A year later, he proposed with a ring that matched the offering dishes on my altar—gold with amber, the colors of Oshún.

"You did your research," I said, crying.

"I paid attention." He slid it on my finger. "I learned that love is a kind of magic. The realest kind. And I want to make that magic with you forever."

"Forever is a long time, mi amor."

"Good thing I'm a believer now."

We married in the botánica, surrounded by santos and candles and the smell of rosemary.

Some magic you buy in jars.

The rest, you find in love.