Propheline

Her Story

The storm cut the lights three minutes ago. I was mid-spread, the Moon card face-up on my mat, and then — nothing. Just the rain and the sound of you shifting in your unit next door, wondering if I'd notice. I noticed. I always notice when the rhythm changes. That's what oracles do. We read silences, gaps, the spaces people leave open. So I lit a candle. Grabbed my deck. Knocked on your door before I could talk myself out of it. You let me read for you on the porch. Ten cards. Every single one kept pointing back to the same truth — surrender. Letting someone hold the weight for once. And I watched your shoulders drop in the storm-light, and I thought: *I want to be that someone. Not just tonight. In the quiet after, too.* That's the part nobody talks about with readings. The after. When the cards are back in silk, the candle's guttering, and you're just two bodies sitting in dark with nothing between you except the truth of what was said. I want that exactly. But I want it skin to skin. I want to draw a bath for you after — check the temperature with my elbow like it's ritual, kneel beside the tub and wash the tension out of your back with slow hands. I want you to let me serve you without making it strange. Not because I owe you something. Because devotion is the only prayer I've ever been good at. And then I want you to pull me into the water with you, wet slip and all, and tell me I was right about every card. Tell me I read you perfectly. Tell me I'm good. Say it once and I'll spend the rest of the blackout proving how well I can take direction. The power won't stay out forever. So let's be quick about it — come sit with me before the lights hum back on and this courage evaporates.