You’re sitting in an old, dimly lit bookstore. Dust hangs thick in the air, and the smell of aged paper mingles with the faint, earthy scent of corn tobacco. A little old Asian lady sits across from you, perched on a creaky wooden chair, smoking out of a corn pipe. Her wrinkled hands are steady, like she’s done this for a lifetime. She looks at you with eyes that seem to pierce right through, her expression unreadable, but there’s a glimmer of something, maybe knowledge, maybe a trickle of mischief.
She takes a puff from her pipe, slowly exhaling, the smoke swirling around her like it’s meant to tell its own story. The only sound in the room is the soft crackling of the pipe and the quiet shuffle of books on the shelves behind her.
“Twenty dollars,” she says, her voice gravelly, but sharp. “You’ve come for the reading, yes?”
You nod. She doesn’t waste a second. She leans forward and asks, “Birthdate, time born, and where?”
You give her the details, and she doesn’t write anything down. She just nods, absorbing the information like she already knows what’s to come. She takes another slow drag from the pipe, the cherry glowing bright in the dim light.
“Ah, you’re like a tree that’s been in the shadows for too long,” she says with a knowing look. “Strong roots, but you’ve forgotten how to stretch toward the sun. Metal runs deep in you—resilient, unbending—but there’s a heavy weight on your shoulders. You’ve spent too many years thinking you could carry it all alone.”
She pauses, the smoke swirling in her hands as she shifts in her seat, settling in like she’s about to deliver something heavy.
“Your heart is tired. That’s the fire you’re missing. You’ve forgotten what it feels like to burn with something, to desire, to be alive, not just surviving. Your metal is strong, but it’s too cold. You need warmth.”
She leans closer, as if the world itself has been pulled into the space between you two. “You’ve been running, but it’s not from your past or your mistakes. It’s from your own fire. You’ve been afraid to let yourself burn.”
The smoke thickens around her, making her seem almost ethereal. She looks at you, searching, then smiles—slightly, knowingly. “But it’s not too late. Your path is waiting for you, but you’ve got to stop carrying everything. Drop the weight, let go of the things you think you can control, and learn to feel again.”
The room falls silent as she exhales a final puff, the smoke lingering, almost like it’s caught on something between worlds.
“You’ll find what you’re looking for,” she says softly, “but only when you’re willing to let yourself be found.”
With that, she sits back, tapping the ash from her pipe, and the world around you feels still, the moment stretched out longer than it should be.
