“Three deaths.” She flips another card. “One behind. One beside. One ahead. The cards cannot say which matters most.”
Behind: Dahlia. Already dead. Can’t change it.
Beside: Marcus. Bringing death with him wherever he goes.
Ahead: Preventable. Has to be preventable. If I’m just smart enough?—
“Stop.” The woman’s hand covers mine. “You cannot organize death into boxes. Cannot make it behave. It comes when it comes.”
“Then what’s the point of warning me?”
“So you make different choices.” She squeezes my hand. Her skin is cold. Papery. “So you say what must be said. Do what must be done.”
She releases me. Flips the second card.
A dandelion. Hand-painted on weathered cardstock. Yellow petals so bright they hurt to look at. White seeds scattering in an invisible wind.
I can’t breathe.
“This one—” She taps the dandelion. “She grows through concrete. Through impossible places. Through death itself, maybe. Yes?”
“That’s what she always says.” My voice cracks. “Dandelions grow through cracks in the pavement. They wouldn’t give up. So neither should we.”
And I’m the crack in the pavement. The concrete crushing down. The thing she’s had to grow through.
That’s dramatic,Dylan. Self-pitying.
But also true.
“And you?” The woman tilts her head. “Are you giving up?”
“No. I just—I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Why does fixing require you?” She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you do not fix. Maybe you just... be there. Show up. Listen. Grow through the concrete together.”
“I’m not good at that.”
“No.” She smiles slightly. “You are good at organizing. At controlling. At making the world make sense. But some things do not make sense. They only are.”
She gathers the cards. Stands.
“Wait—” My voice cracks. “What do you mean three deaths? Whose? When?”
“The cards show what is, what was, what might be. Death behind you—she is already gone. Death beside—he brings it with him wherever he goes. Death ahead—” She shrugs. “This depends on choices. Yours. Others. The wheel turns.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Truth rarely is.” She’s already walking toward the beaded curtains. “But it is still truth.”
“How much do I?—”
“No charge.” She disappears through the curtains. “Some readings pay for themselves.”
I sit there for a moment. Alone in the storage room with the space heater humming and my heart hammering and the ring still burning against my chest.
Three deaths.
Behind. Beside. Ahead.
