A husband buried in the ground, a hump on her back, and a lump of wood aross the door of the little spell shop; "OUT OF BUSINESS".
A sense of being unwanted. The times had eliminated the need for magic and power. Eliminated the need for her.
A tiny bottle in her withered hand, the only item to be found in the bare, dusty shelves after the Repo goblins had swept the place. "Pixie Dust," read the sun-damaged label.
That was all the lonely old witch had to show.