Chapter 1 #

Maybe this story will be different. Maybe nothing terrible will happen. No torture, no murder, no one losing everything. Maybe it will be a romantic comedy instead, with a few awkward misunderstandings and an ending that leaves everyone a little better off than before. A ruined first kiss. A dog stealing an important letter and hiding it under the couch. Someone dropping a cake. That sort of thing. By the stars, let it be something like that.

But I know better.

When a story announces itself, it’s usually because somewhere, in some far-flung corner of the omniverse, something terrible is about to happen. Stories don’t come to people like me to report on a quiet Sunday afternoon in someone’s vegetable garden. They come because something is at stake and because someone is needed to write it all down.

I sigh and stare out my bedroom window. Dust motes drift through a band of morning sun. Cat hairs, too, of course. Always cat hairs.

Outside, the street is still quiet. The baker across the way is opening his shutters. Farther down, keys jingle softly, followed by the dull thud of a door swinging shut.

And somewhere out there, a girl is going about her day with no idea that she has just become the centre of a story I’m going to have to tell, whether either of us likes it or not.

Stars and moons. I haven’t even had breakfast yet.

Okay. Time to pull myself together.

I shuffle over to my vanity and sink onto the stool. I pick up my brush and draw it through my long black hair, still damp from washing.

Then the kohl pencil. Nothing left but a short stub. I need to buy a new one, but I’ve been telling myself that for two weeks. I turn it carefully between my fingers, lean toward the mirror, and trace a thick line around my eyes. Top and bottom. Thick enough to make my golden-brown eyes look intense and piercing, as if I can see right through you. Which I sometimes can, though that has nothing to do with the kohl.

A sweep of purple eyeshadow across my lids, and finally, dark red lipstick. I press my lips together, roll them, and study the result.

Et voilà: Madame Mira.

“Meow.”

That’s Lucky. She jumps onto the vanity and plants her fluffy white backside squarely on my powder compact.

“Lucky. Careful.”

I nudge her gently aside. She allows it, then fixes me with an indignant stare from those bright blue eyes. How dare you.

I scratch her head in apology. Yes, it’s a cliché, I know. But a seer without a cat is like a narrator without a story. And that — let’s be honest — is what I was for far too long.

I rise from the stool and brush Lucky’s hairs from my lap. Pointless, of course. My long gown of midnight-blue velvet may be the worst possible surface for white hairs, and Lucky knows it. I swear she knows it.

The culprit is already heading for the kitchen ahead of me, tail held high.

My kitchen is small. So small I can barely turn around in it, which is fine, because I’ve never been much of a cook. Three cupboards, a stove, and a counter that fits exactly one chopping board if you ask nicely. I don’t need more than that.

I set the old copper kettle on the hob and turn on the gas. The flame flickers to life with a soft whoosh.

Now for a cup.

I open the cupboard. No cups. Only my star spice and dragon mint in glass jars, my loose-leaf tea, and a whole row of antique liqueur glasses I inherited from Grandma. Just like the old kettle. Just like the recipe for moonberry liqueur that I still can’t make as well as she did. In fact, I’ve inherited almost everything in my life from Grandma. Everything that matters, at least.

Bonk.

Lucky rams her head into my calf.

“Easy.”

I scoop dry food into her bowl and pour some cat milk onto a saucer. “Enjoy, Lucky.”

Five years ago, she crept into my shop as a stray kitten. Wet, filthy, and thin as a twig. One of the many lost souls who find their way here. Lucky was allowed to stay, as an exception. The rest of my visitors I always send back home, though a few would happily linger.

On the corner of the kitchen table sits a mug with the dregs of yesterday’s tea, a nearly dried film at the bottom. I peer into it, though reading tea leaves has never been my greatest talent. A hat? A mushroom? A warning not to let my tea go cold? Probably that last one.

I stare impatiently at the kettle.

Last night’s dream is still rattling around in my head. Intense dreams are an occupational hazard, but this one was different. It wasn’t mine.

It belonged to a young woman. She was ankle-deep in mud, and the harder she tried to pull free, the deeper she sank. Her companions just kept walking. All I could see were backpacks, the backs of heads, and silhouettes shrinking between the trees. Nobody looked back.

“Help,” she called out. “I’m stuck.” But her voice was barely a whisper.

Then the ground tore open beneath her and she was in freefall. Straight into nothing. A dark, bottomless pit.

That was when I shot upright in bed. It took a long, long second before I was sure I was staring at my own ceiling and not that all-consuming void.

Whether she woke with a start at the same moment, I don’t know. I hope so.

I know the pattern: first the dream, then the visions. The first dream is the knock on the door before you open it. Ignoring it is pointless. The knocking only turns into pounding, and if I still don’t answer, the story barrels in as if the door were nothing more than a formality.

“We don’t choose our stories, Mira. They choose us.” That was what my grandmother always said, in that calm voice of hers.

The kettle starts to sing.

I rinse out the mug, drop in a fresh teabag, and pour the hot water over it. I make a silent vow to spare this cup of tea the fate of its many predecessors: cold, forgotten, and abandoned in some random corner of my shop. We’ll see.

With my steaming mug in hand, I head for the stairs down to the shop.

The stairs creak under my bare feet. At the bottom I slip on my shoes and push open the connecting door.

Don’t mind the sound.

Eeeeeee — CREEEAK — eeeeeee.

Tada.

This is The Right Place. Welcome.

I didn’t come up with the name. That was Gran. Subtle she was not. Out front, her hand-painted signs still hang from the façade, the paint chipped here and there, with slogans like “The answer awaits within!” and “This is your sign!” and my personal favourite: “Yes, you there.” With an arrow pointing at the door.

I’ve left them up. They draw new clients in, and if something works, it works.

You can always spot the new ones right away. They step inside and freeze in the doorway, every time. Eyes wide, mouth half open, as if they’ve stumbled into another world. It starts with the scent that greets them: incense, dried herbs, and old books. I wish I could let you smell it. Imagine something halfway between an autumn forest, an antique bookcase, and an exotic bazaar. That’s close.

Well, come on in and feast your eyes.

Thick carpets in deep reds and purples cover the wooden floorboards. Grandma brought them back from distant lands, and each one has its own personality. My favourite is the big one in the centre. It’s decorated with scenes from an ancient legend: heroes with swords, mythical creatures with too many eyes, and somewhere in the corner, an old man we were never able to identify. I call him Bram.

Between the carpets, colourful cushions and poufs are scattered about, as if they were tossed down at random. They weren’t.

Antique lanterns hang from the ceiling, bathing the whole shop in a warm, amber glow.

The walls? You can barely see them. They disappear almost entirely behind tall cabinets that reach to the ceiling.

Some are packed with books on astrology, alchemy, herbalism, and mythology. Tucked between them are boxes of oracle cards. Some are so rare that collectors come to my shop from far and wide.

Other cabinets overflow with jars and bottles of herbs and potions. Let’s see… here we have a concoction for “Heartbreak Recovery” (works, but not as fast as you’d like). Next to it are the sachets of my herbal blend for “Finding Lost Objects” (works, but doesn’t always bring back what you were looking for). And in these blue vials are eye drops, labelled: “Perfect Vision for One Day.” (Works. Period.)

In the centre of the shop stands the old counter, surrounded by glass display cases. Behind the glass, my treasures lie in wait: gemstones and minerals arranged on velvet. Rough amethyst, smooth rose quartz palm stones, and black obsidian that catches your gaze and won’t let go. Selenite, labradorite, moonstone, tiger’s eye. I know them all by name, as if they were old friends.

Oh, and let’s not forget to look up. Above the counter, talismans and amulets dangle from thin chains at varying heights. They clink softly together when the front door opens. Some bring luck, some offer protection, but most hang there simply because they’re pretty.

It’s quiet at this hour. The shop is still closed and the street outside is calm. I breathe in.

The Right Place, my sanctuary.

But the real heart of the magic? That is my reading table. A round table of dark wood, placed strategically in the quietest corner of the shop with a view of the front door.

Lucky is already there, naturally. She leaps elegantly onto the tabletop, weaves between my things, and flops down on the fanned-out oracle cards I didn’t bother to tidy last night.

I set my mug on the table and lower myself into the armchair. Grandma’s old throne. It creaks with every movement, the leather on the armrests is worn thin, but I can’t bring myself to part with it.

If you were my client, I’d ask you to come a little closer now and take a seat across from me. There, on that soft pouf with the golden tassels. Make yourself comfortable.

Plenty of people call me a fraud, but Madame Mira isn’t an act. Most people who sink onto that pouf are there because they feel lost or are facing a difficult choice. Most leave my shop with more clarity and confidence than they had when they walked in. Not because I hand them all the answers, but because I help them dig up their own.

The answer awaits within, as Grandma’s sign out front already gives away, but sometimes you just need a little help to see it.

But here’s the thing. My real work, my real gift, is something else. Something most of my clients never notice.

I’m a narrator. Not one who makes stories up, but one who receives them. It’s a rare gift, and it always skips a generation. My mother didn’t have it, which is why she didn’t believe in it either. She thought it was all nonsense. But my grandmother, Sybil, was one too.

Granny taught me everything: how the visions work, why you shouldn’t push them away because they’ll come back at the worst possible moment, which scents and herbs sharpen the inner eye, and which gemstones help you keep your distance so you don’t lose yourself in your protagonist’s life. She taught me how to sleep at night without their problems jolting me awake.

And she taught me the four laws of clairvoyant narratorship.

The First: Be a silent witness. Don’t intervene. Let the story unfold without interference, however tempting it may be to help your protagonist.

The Second: Stay unseen. Never let your protagonist know you’re watching. The moment someone realizes they’re the hero of their own myth, they start acting the part. And just like that, the natural course of the story falls apart.

The Third: One soul is entrusted to you. Never enter the mind of anyone but your protagonist. What you are given is enough. What you take is a trespass.

The Fourth: Don’t read ahead. The future is a closed book.

I can still hear Granny repeating them over and over. Always steady, always matter-of-fact, in the same tone she used when she told me to stop letting my tea go cold, or that moonberries may only be picked at night.

But there’s something else she gave me, perhaps the most important thing of all.

There. On the edge of the reading table lies a thick notebook with a weathered leather cover. Above it hovers a slender blue fountain pen with silver filigree along the barrel. Its nib scratches softly across the paper. The ink flows in graceful loops and curls, in my own handwriting, as though I’m sitting there writing it myself. But I’m sitting here. And the pen writes.

What it’s writing is what you’re reading now.

The pages turn on their own when one is full. I don’t have to do a thing. I don’t even have to be there. The pen isn’t bound to this shop. It’s bound to me, and it writes until I tell it to stop. It doesn’t matter whether I’m downstairs in my shop, upstairs in my kitchen, or, in theory, in a completely different world. It keeps writing.

Stars and moons. Nine years.

For nine years that pen sat gathering dust on my reading table, and I had quietly resigned myself to the idea that maybe it would stay that way. That I was done.

I guess not.

Now a new story has presented itself. With that young woman in the lead, the girl in the mud. And she may very well be in danger.

Lucky rolls onto her side on the oracle cards and closes her eyes. One more thing before we begin. I open the drawer of my reading table, pull out a black velvet pouch, and let the contents slide into my palm. A smooth selenite palm stone.

Brr, cold. Granny swore by selenite. She always had one of these tucked in the pocket of her knitted cardigan. I’ve taken up the ritual, mostly because I like having something to hold during a vision, as if it’s an anchor keeping me from drifting too far.

Good.

Let’s begin. I close my eyes. You can keep yours open. The dream was the knock on the door. And this... this is the moment I open it and let the story in.

“Gift of my blood, sharpen my sight, reach through the dark and bring the unseen to light.”

A deep breath in. A long breath out.

The scents and sounds of the shop fade and give way to sensations and feelings that aren’t mine. Memories and musings. Fragments of thought drift in like whispers I can barely catch: Is it almost break time?... That toadstool has really seen better days... What am I even doing here?... I’m twenty-one and I still have no idea...

It’s as if I step into her skin, as if I’m looking out from behind her eyes and experiencing the world the way she does. Not beside her, but as her, and yet still at a distance. A thin veil only I can feel. That’s my place. The place of a narrator. Close enough to see everything. Far enough to remember that it isn’t about me.

I sink deeper, let the current carry me, and… there she is.

Thanks for reading! #

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💜 - Jasmine

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