The first time I suspected Mr. Thorne was a wizard, he blew up his begonias.

It happened sometime after dawn—just early enough that the sky still held a faint gray light, and just late enough that I felt justified opening my curtains. I had only intended to check the weather. Instead, I watched an eruption of blue flame flare upward from Mr. Thorne’s flowerbed, accompanied by a sharp pop and a puff of scented smoke. The begonias, once arranged in irritatingly perfect symmetry, were gone. In their place stood Mr. Thorne himself—robe-clad, hair wind-tossed, spectacles fogged. He tapped his walking stick against the earth, muttered something that sounded suspiciously arcane, and sighed.

I stared. He glanced up, caught me in the window, and raised a hand as if greeting an acquaintance across a ballroom.

Later that morning, I found him tending the smoldering crater with a watering can and a look of fierce concentration.

“Good morning,” I said, cautiously stepping across the property line. The air smelled faintly of burnt citrus.

“Morning,” he replied, as though nothing unusual had occurred.

“So… the garden had a mishap?”

He adjusted his spectacles. “Yes, well. Fertilizer. Very volatile mixture. Won’t be using that again.”

I looked down. The soil still shimmered faintly.

“Volatile enough to vaporize flowers?”

He paused, then forced a thin smile.

“Modern horticulture is full of surprises.”

Over the next weeks, the evidence accumulated.

He installed what he called an “observatory” in his backyard. Observatory, as it turned out, meant a narrow tower with a steep roof and several windows glowing an unnatural violet at night. The thing rose above the neighborhood like it expected a dragon at any moment.

When I asked about it, he waved a dismissive hand.

“Just stargazing equipment.”

“Most observatories aren’t shaped like towers,” I said.

“Most people have no imagination.”

On at least three occasions, I heard him shout strings of foreign-sounding words—sharp consonants, rolling vowels, a rhythm that left the hair on the back of my neck standing upright. Each time, there came a flash of colored light—sometimes green, sometimes gold, once a blinding white that illuminated the entire cul-de-sac.

“Practicing Latin,” he explained, when I asked.

“Latin doesn’t usually glow.”

“It does if you conjugate correctly.”

He said it with such certainty that I found myself nodding, despite every instinct that told me I was being lied to very politely.

I decided to confront him properly one evening when I caught him pacing the yard with a walking stick that hummed softly—yes, hummed—as he tapped it against the ground. The scent in the air reminded me of rain before a storm, cool and metallic.

“Mr. Thorne,” I said, crossing my arms, “I know.”

He froze.

“You know… what?” he asked, voice perfectly calm.

“That you’re a wizard.”

A long moment passed.

Then he chuckled—a low, amused sound.

“A wizard,” he repeated. “Good heavens. No.”

“You wear robes.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You carry a staff.”

“It’s a cane. My knee aches in the cold.”

“You shouted something about ‘binding the veil of the third convergence.’ The lights from your windows turned purple.”

He brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve.

“Poetry practice.”

“And your begonias exploded.”

He lowered his gaze with mild embarrassment.

“That was… unfortunate.”

We stood there, the night air cool and quiet except for the soft hum of his not-cane.

At last he leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “I am a perfectly ordinary—absolutely unremarkable—man. Nothing mystical, magical, enchanted, or otherwise extraordinary occurs on my property. Do we understand one another?”

“No,” I said.

He sighed—deeply, dramatically. “Fine. Then let me put it this way.”

He tapped the staff once against the earth. A ring of pale blue light rippled outward along the grass, silent and smooth as frost forming. The stars overhead brightened slightly.

He gave me a thin smile. “If I were a wizard,” he said softly, “I would be a very private one. And I would prefer my neighbors not mention it.”

The light faded. The hum ceased.

He stepped past me toward his door.

“Goodnight,” he said, as though our conversation had been about nothing more interesting than weather.

“Goodnight,” I replied.

From that evening forward, I told no one. But every so often—when the wind shifts or the moon looks particularly full—I glance toward the tower and see a violet glow flickering behind the windows.

And I cannot help thinking: I was absolutely right.