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Sample Chapter
Preface: The Bookshop
March 8th
I’m not sure what I expected to find when I stepped into that little bookshop. Honestly, I wasn’t even looking for it. It was raining, that kind of lazy drizzle that seems to seep into your bones, and I just needed to get out of the cold. My boots squeaked against the wooden floor as I walked in, the smell of old books and something faintly spicy—cinnamon? clove? —filling the air.
The place was tiny, crammed with shelves that leaned under the weight of too many stories. It felt like stepping into another world, like I’d tripped through the back of my wardrobe into Narnia. And maybe I had, in a way.
The shopkeeper was perched behind the counter, a woman whose age was impossible to guess. Her hair was streaked with grey, but her eyes were sharp, glinting with some private amusement as though she knew the punchline to a joke I hadn’t heard yet. “Looking for something?” she asked, her voice low and warm, like the crackle of a fire.
I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway.
That’s when I saw it. Nestled on a cluttered table between a battered copy of The Alchemist and a tangle of dried herbs, there it was: a deck of Tarot cards. The box was scuffed, the edges worn soft from years of use. I wasn’t sure why I picked it up, only that my fingers seemed to move on their own.
“That one’s special,” the shopkeeper said, watching me carefully. “It has a way of finding the people it’s meant for.”
I laughed, nervously. “A pack of cards?”
She didn’t laugh back, just tilted her head, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’d be surprised!”
I don’t know what compelled me to buy them. Curiosity, maybe. Or desperation. I’d been drifting for so long, feeling like I was stuck in neutral while everyone else had figured out how to shift into gear. A college dropout with a string of dead-end jobs and more half-finished projects than I could count, I wasn’t exactly living my best life. And then there was Emerson. Or the lack of him. We hadn’t spoken in months, a rift that felt as wide as an ocean.
The shopkeeper slipped the cards into a brown paper bag, handing them to me like she was passing me something sacred. “Good luck,” she said, her eyes lingering on mine. “You’ll need it.”
I shoved the bag into my knapsack, muttering a quick thanks before stepping back into the rain. The drizzle had thickened into something heavier, and I tugged my hood over my head, wondering why my chest felt so tight; it wasn’t the cold.
Later, in the quiet of my rented room, I opened the box. The cards were beautiful, their edges gilded, the illustrations intricate and strange. I shuffled them clumsily, half-expecting them to feel different, heavier somehow. When I finally drew one, my breath caught in my throat.
The Fool… A figure stood at the edge of a cliff, a small dog dancing at their heels, a knapsack slung over one shoulder. Their face was turned toward the sky, utterly unbothered by the abyss beneath their feet.
The shopkeeper’s words echoed in my mind: “It has a way of finding the people it’s meant for.”
I don’t know what it means yet. But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe it’s time I find out…