Eason frowned as he flipped through the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"𝔒𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔞 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔨𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔡𝔯𝔬𝔫'𝔰 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔦𝔤𝔥 𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔱 𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯."

"𝔒𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔞 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔩 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔰𝔢𝔱 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔴 𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔞𝔷𝔢 𝔟𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔬𝔤𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯."

"𝔒𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔞 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔢𝔵𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔞 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔢 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥."

And so it went on, page after page. Eason quickly grasped the pattern. None of it seemed truly magical—just a peculiar mix of recipes and basic physics disguised as mysticism.

Aconitum napellus, he read at one point, expecting an incantation. Instead, it was the Latin name for wolfsbane. As he skimmed through its effects, a chilling realization dawned on him. Not only had he survived potential poisoning, but the plant also caused hallucinations. Could that explain his memories of Lumi practicing supernatural magic?

Eason dared not meet Lumi's eyes. Her entire life, she had believed herself a witch. How could he break it to her that all she thought magical—her spells and even his—were utterly mundane?

He was drowning in the guilt of his own deceptions. How could he tell her that her life, as she knew it, was built on illusions?

Lumi gazed at him expectantly, her face alight with pride and hope. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with an innocent twinkle, her cheeks dotted with freckles like stars in a night sky. She wore a flower-trimmed hat that carried a delicate scent of lavender.

Through the open window, birds chirped melodiously, leaves rustled in the gentle wind, and sunlight poured golden beams into the room, making the dust motes shimmer in the air above her bed.

In that moment, Eason realized something profound: none of it was a lie. Lumi was magic—everything was magic. From the right perspective, the world was brimming with wonder.

"I... I think I know how to reveal your mother's spell," he said hesitantly.

Lumi's eyes lit up as she leaned in, her curiosity palpable. Eason had to fight the urge to kiss her again. That kind of magic was infinitely more alluring than the scientific experiments he now recalled from high school.

"I need a candle. We'll use its flame to uncover the hidden text on the page." He wasn't entirely sure it would work, but part of him wanted to keep believing in magic—for her sake. And for his.

"You're not going to set the book on fire, are you?" she asked cautiously. Still, she clambered off the bed, fetched a candlestick from the table, and handed it to him.

Eason shook his head, though he couldn't be certain. Gently, he opened the book and lifted the last page. "Hold the candle beneath the paper—but be careful not to let it touch."

Nervous energy coursed through Lumi. She was torn between the fear of accidentally destroying her family's legacy and the hope of finally unraveling the book's mysteries. Despite her doubts, something deep within her told her this was the way.

The candle's flame danced close to the paper, and as anticipation sent tingles through Lumi's body, it almost felt as though the fire tickled her skin. Eason rotated the page delicately over the flame, and suddenly, brown letters emerged in her mother's elegant handwriting:

"𝔒𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔞 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔞𝔯𝔶 𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔨."

The rest of the words were left a mystery as Lumi hastily set down the candle and clapped her hands in excitement. "I have to try that!" she squealed, jumping off the bed and rummaging through a chest filled with bottles and jars. She dashed out the door toward the outhouse, leaving Eason bewildered—and slightly queasy.

Moments later, Lumi returned, clutching a small jar of golden "ink." She dipped a quill into her mouth as she pondered her next move. Eason could only hope the quill was clean and that she wouldn't repeat the habit after dipping it into the jar.

She wrote eagerly on a blank sheet of paper, her enthusiasm shining like a child's pride in a finger-painted masterpiece. When she finished, she waved the paper in the air to dry it, then handed both the paper and the candle to Eason, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

He was reminded of his own childhood, presenting drawings to his mother, only for them to be dismissed and discarded the next day. His parents, consumed by their real estate ambitions, were excellent entrepreneurs but poor caregivers. 

Eason held the paper over the flame, and faint, messy letters began to appear:

Dear Eason,

If you're reading this, it means I am a true witch, worthy of passing my knowledge to the next generation. Are you ready to show me how to craft a baby?

Love,

Lumi

Eason's heart pounded as he stared at the message. His hands grew clammy, and the sweet popcorn he'd eaten earlier now felt like sawdust in his mouth.

"Lumi, I..." he began, his voice trembling.

But she pressed a finger to his lips, taking the paper from his hands. She leaned in closer, her challenging eyes glittering mischievously.

"I don't want you to tell me," she whispered, "I want you to show me."

Eason brushed a hand through her hair, pressing a passionate kiss to her lips. He rose from the bed, gently guiding her back so he could place the candle on the table. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he twirled her playfully before laying her softly back onto the bed.

Lumi's cheeks flushed a deeper red as she gazed up at him, momentarily flustered. "Not now, you dolt!" she giggled. "Come on, grab the candle! Let's reveal the last spell. I know it has to be about creating a baby! To who else could I pass on my knowledge?" She slipped out from under him, clutching her spellbook and flipping to the second-to-last page, motioning impatiently for him to bring the candle.

Eason placed his hands over hers. "Do you trust me, Lumi?" he asked, his voice low and earnest.

Lumi hesitated but eventually nodded, the strange magical tension she'd felt earlier still coursing through her.

Gently, Eason closed the spellbook, his dark eyes intent on hers. "Then let me show you," he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to her neck. At that moment, the spellbook was the furthest thing from her mind.

If you were hoping for a detailed description of what happened next, I'll have to disappoint you. Let's skip ahead—a considerable leap forward. How about seven months?