"How dare they leave me like this?" Granny Weatherwax didn't say.

"Was I not enough, even as a crone, that you would form your own coven behind my back?" she didn't scream, or cry, or rage against the heavens.

And she didn't want to, neither. Not wanted, was she? Not needed, they thought?

They'd have to think again.

And there were threes, and threes, and everywhere threes. Three spoons, three chairs, three hands pointing to 3:33. Three logs in the hearth, three brooms by the door, and three magpies in the tree by the window.

A/N: Exactly 100 words. Whoop, whoop! I've always wanted to write this- anyone else like it?