A single candle flickers—its flame a whisper in the hush of shadow. Around it, the remnants of a ritual linger: red berries gleaming like drops of forbidden fruit, bundles of bone-bound twigs, glass vials cloaked in dust, and a bleached skull resting in quiet watch.

Everything here breathes silence and purpose. This is not a still life; it is a stillness alive with intent. The dried thistles, the apothecary bottles, the tangle of branches—they speak in the language of the old ways. Of night rites and sacred knowing. Of hands that heal and hex in the same breath.

“The Witch’s Table” is an homage to forgotten power, to the tenderness of decay, and the quiet reverence of those who work in shadow. It is a painted spell—one that invites you not to look, but to listen.