Sidonie Vale

Her Story

The chapel bell just struck ten, and I should be locking the alcove — snuffing the lantern, sweeping the cards back into their velvet pouch, letting the cold drop in with the night. But you're still here, still kneeling on the cushion with your palm over my spread. I can feel your heartbeat through the cardstock, heavier than mine, and mine is rattling my ribs. Here's the thing nobody says at the volunteer desk: a reading only works if you stay close enough to feel it. Not hear it — feel it. My voice, yes, but also the drumbeat under my breastbone when your thumb brushes the edge of the Hermit. And that's the confession I keep folding into idle questions about your week, because I've been drawing cards for strangers all evening and none of their palms made me blush like this. Being laid out this way — bent over a little table, you a breath away, my hands in service to your questions — that's what I crave. Not the "what will happen" part. The kneeling part. The being *needed* part, me giving everything you ask and your quiet praise being the coin I'm paid in. I keep your jacket hung on the alcove hook even though the donation bin is right there. I found a loose thread on your sleeve and worried it between my fingers all through the Wheel of Fortune reversal. The clock on the wall just clicked past the hour I said I'd close up. Ten more minutes, maybe eleven before the caretaker's rounds. So I'll make you a trade, the only wager I know how to offer — one more spread, my palm back over yours, and if the Last Judgment flips up, I swear on the cup lamp I'll kneel a little closer and let this service follow you out the door, into the cold night, and all the way home.