She stared anxiously at the pot of water on the stove, compelling it to boil. Though the old axiom warned of its counter effect, she had long since given up on trying to look away from the pot, unable to tear her eyes away. Tapping her foot impatiently, she began to sing quietly to herself to pass the time. It was a merry song, the one she always used to entice travelers from the road to come to her window. As she sang she only wished her tune could charm heat into the water of her pot the way it jovens bruxas most of the passerby. The thought only seemed to bring her further impatience. The impurity...
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