SEVENTY-SEVEN

Mara woke before dawn on her seventieth birthday, the house still and blue like a held breath. Her hands trembled as she buttoned the gold dress her daughter picked out some silver sequins that whispered celebration.

But seventy wasn't a number she welcomed. Not anymore.

The dream had been coming for months now the same vision each time: her body shrinking, the world expanding, becoming seven again on the day she turned seventy. Her grandmother had whispered the family story once, when Mara was small: "When you reach seventy and a seven-year-old holds your heart, the circle completes. You become what you once were."

Her granddaughter had just turned seven last month.

Her family thought the shaking came from age. They didn't know what she'd been counting down for months the way a prisoner marks days on a wall. They didn't know about the old family magic, dormant for generations, waiting for the right alignment of numbers and love.

Tonight, her family filled the living room with warm light and floral tablecloths. Silver balloons hovered by the ceiling. Her grandchildren ran circles around strawberry watermelon crunch cupcakes.

Everyone wore joy. Nobody wore fear.

Except Mara.

"Mom, you look beautiful," her daughter Natalie said, brushing a curl from her forehead. "Seventy looks good on you."

Mara's throat tightened. "Looks aren't everything."

Natalie laughed, not hearing the quiver beneath the subtext that screamed: I won't look like this in a few hours.

"Make a wish before we cut the cake."

Wishes had betrayed her long ago. Her grandmother's warning had seemed like a fairy tale until the dreams began—vivid and insistent, showing her exactly what would happen when the clock struck midnight.

Still, everyone stared, waiting. Mara closed her eyes. "I wish to stay."

The room applauded. No one understood. But she felt lighter for saying it aloud.

Later, when guests drifted home and only the fridge hummed, Mara sat alone on the couch. Midnight was minutes away. Her hands felt smaller already, bones loosening inside her skin. The transformation was inevitable now—she could feel the magic stirring, reaching for the connection that would complete the circle.

Her granddaughter wandered out sleepily. "Grandma? Wanna see something?"

Mara's heart stopped. The seven-year-old. The one who would open the portal. Mara forced a smile. "What is it, sweet girl?"

The child held up a drawing stick figures holding hands, a big sun above them. "It's you and me. On your birthday."

The moment their eyes met over the paper, Mara felt it. A pull. An ancient recognition. The drawing glowed faintly in her granddaughter's small hands, and Mara understood: this was the key. This offering of love from a seven-year-old heart was what would unlock the transformation her grandmother had warned her about. Mara's breath hitched. A simple picture felt like an anchor thrown into churning water.

"Can I keep it?"

"Of course."

Her granddaughter trotted back to bed, unaware of the gift she'd just given.

The clock struck midnight.

A ripple consumed Mara's body. Her skin tightened, legs shortened, the gold dress slipping off one shoulder like melting metal. She gripped the couch as the world ballooned around her.

She cried out, not from pain, but from the familiar terror of being unmade.

When it was over, her feet didn't reach the floor. Her hands were small. Her voice was a thin ribbon.

Seven again.

Her gold dress pooled around her like a collapsed celebration.

She looked at the drawing in her lap. The drawing that had opened the portal, that had sealed her fate.

Still there. Still hers.

And something inside her steadied.

She hadn't stopped the transformation. Hadn't kept her wish. Hadn't remained seventy.

But for the first time, she didn't feel like she'd vanished.

Someone had seen her. Had saved her. Had given her something to hold onto. The magic had taken her age, but the love remained—visible, tangible, drawn in crayon on construction paper.

She pulled the drawing to her chest like a lifejacket.

"I'm still here," she whispered into the quiet. "Even if I'm small."

And somehow—that was enough.

The circle was complete. Seventy had become seven. But the connection that caused it was also the thing that would sustain her.

She was seven years old now, just like her granddaughter.

And maybe, she thought, clutching the drawing tighter, that wasn't a curse at all.

Ashley Shelton is from Chicago and has landed in the sunshine state of Florida in the city of Orlando. When she’s not writing, she pursues her secondary passion of fashion and makeup. Follow her on Instagram @twasmj.