The fog clung to the streets like a jealous lover, winding itself around iron railings and crooked gas lamps, swallowing the faint light until the world seemed little more than shifting shadows. It was on such nights that Esther Harrow's shop seemed less a place of trade and more an apparition—an amber glow pressed against the gloom, daring passersby to wonder whether it was sanctuary or snare.
The door bore no name. Instead, a hand-painted sigil, brushed in silver, marked its weathered wood—a star pierced with a crescent moon. Only those who knew its meaning dared step across the threshold.
Inside, the air was warm with the scent of sandalwood and dried lavender. Shelves groaned beneath jars of herbs and roots, crystals that glimmered like captured starlight, and leather-bound tomes whose titles had long since faded. Tarot cards, kept beneath a veil of black silk, rested on a small oak table near the fire. Beeswax candles flickered in brass holders, their flames casting tall, watchful shadows across the walls.
Horace, her black cat, lifted his golden eyes as Esther entered. He stretched lazily upon the counter, his tail flicking as though he too sensed the night's heaviness. Above them, perched in the rafters, Morrigan the raven gave a low, rattling croak, her feathers absorbing the glow of the fire as though she were carved of midnight itself.
Esther drew her cloak tighter and let the hood fall back. Her hair, dark as pitch, tumbled loosely about her shoulders, and her pale face caught the candlelight in sharp contrast. She moved with a calmness that unsettled even the boldest customer, as though her steps were measured against some unseen rhythm of the universe.
Tonight, she thought, business would be heavy. The fog always drove them to her—those trembling with grief, those hollow-eyed with desperation, those who carried secrets too heavy for prayer alone.
A knock echoed against the door, sharp and quick, like a heartbeat that faltered then struck again. Horace's ears pricked. Morrigan let out another croak, this one sharper, warning.
Esther's hand lingered on the tarot deck. She closed her eyes for a breath, listening—not to the knock, but to the silence beneath it. There was fear outside her door, yes. But also something darker.
"Come," she said softly, though her voice carried, clear as a bell through the thickened air.
The door creaked open. A woman entered, her eyes red-rimmed, her gloves still damp from fog and tears. She clutched at the folds of her dress as though holding herself together by sheer will.
"You are Esther Harrow," she whispered.
Esther inclined her head. "You have come for truth."
The woman hesitated, trembling. "And if truth destroys me?"
"Then you were destroyed before you stepped inside," Esther replied, gesturing toward the chair by the fire.
The woman sat, her hands quivering as Esther laid out the cards. Horace leapt gracefully to the table's edge, watching with an intensity that made the widow shiver. Morrigan shifted in the rafters, feathers rustling like distant wings.
Esther turned the first card.
The Widow gasped.
It was Death.