A Bed for Tired Whispers

I hopped down from the bus steps and made my way back inside as dusk settled over London. Climbing up onto the low coffee table, I found an empty bone-china saucer sitting beside a forgotten book. Right in its center lay a tiny dried star anise pod that smelled faintly of licorice and woodsmoke. It looked remarkably like an eight-pointed compass with nowhere to sail. I tucked my wand into my pocket, leaned down, and placed a folded bus ticket flat beneath the pod to keep it from spinning. Now it rests quietly in its own miniature harbor.