The heart of a glass shell.

She grabbed a handful of dirt and placed a pinch of sand from the beach at its center.

Then she set the handful into a drawer used as a planting bed. After three nights of moonlight and morning dew, a shell began to emerge and grow from the drawer. She moved it indoors, as it required more care, and held it upside down underwater for another three nights.

In the fish tank where she placed the drawer, the dirt did not fall to the bottom; it held steady as the shell grew larger.

At midnight on the final night, she pulled the drawer through the glass of the tank. The drawer opened as if it were part of the glass itself, and from it she plucked the shell.

Holding it carefully, she lifted it to the light, watching the rays bend and shift as they passed through it. The shell was made of glass, and inside it the final ingredient pulsed—moving, alive.

She took a thin ice pick and a small rubber hammer and placed the shell on the counter. Putting on goggles, she lowered the face shield of a welding helmet. With shaky hands, she began to pry the shell open.

Strike after strike, the two halves slowly separated until the opening was wide enough for a finger. Then she gripped both sides and, using all her strength, forced it open completely.

Once fully opened on the countertop, she reached into the shell with a pair of pliers and grasped its center.

It was a red-and-orange orb, its colors flowing within it without ever mixing.

Arms fully extended—careful not to bring it too close, completely focused on not dropping it—she placed the orb into a glass container.

She lifted the face shield and wiped the sweat from her forehead, then brought forward a cauldron containing the rest of the potion.

“The first wish upon a star,” she read through the goggles from a dusty book,
“in the last light of daylight, branded in the sand.”

She dropped the orb into the cauldron.