Chapter 4: The Reading

The bus lurched through morning traffic, diesel fumes mixing with the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a space. Makun stood near the back, one hand gripping the overhead rail, watching the city slide past the grimy windows.

Upper city gave way to mid city. Clean streets turned cracked. Glass towers became concrete blocks. The people changed too. Fewer suits. More worn faces.

By the time the bus crossed into the lower city, Makun was one of five passengers left.

He pulled the cord. The bus hissed to a stop.

47 Osapa Street was three blocks east. He checked his phone. 8:52 AM. Early. Good. He wanted time to scope the place out before committing.

The buildings here leaned into each other like drunks. Narrow alleys between them, filled with trash and shadows that seemed too dark for morning. Street vendors shouted from their stalls. The smell of frying plantains mixed with exhaust and sewage.

Makun found the address.

A three story building, faded yellow paint peeling in strips. Rusty metal stairs climbed the outside, zigzagging up to each floor. No sign. No indication that this was anything other than residential.

He stood on the sidewalk, staring up.

This is stupid.

He knew it was. Fifty dollars to some stranger who probably had a script memorized. “I sense dark energy around you. You need cleansing. That’ll be another hundred dollars.”

But he was here. And he had nowhere else to go.

He climbed the stairs.

Metal groaned under his weight. The railing wobbled. On the second floor landing, someone had left a broken chair and a pile of empty beer bottles.

Third floor. Apartment 3B.

The door was plain wood, scratched and dented. No nameplate. Just the number painted in faded white.

Makun raised his fist. Hesitated.

Last chance to walk away.

He knocked.

Footsteps inside. Quick, light. The door opened.

Zuri.

She looked exactly like her photo. Mid twenties. Dark skin. Hair pulled back into a tight bun. But the photo hadn’t captured how sharp her eyes were. How they seemed to cut through him in that first second, assessing, cataloging.

She wore a simple tank top and jeans. The tattoos on her forearms were more intricate than he’d realized. Symbols and patterns that seemed to flow into each other, creating shapes his eyes couldn’t quite follow.

“You’re early.” Her voice was flat. Professional. No warmth.

“Makun. I booked for nine.”

“I know who you are. You paid online. Come in.”

She stepped aside. Makun entered.

The apartment was small. One main room that served as living space, workspace, everything. A couch pushed against one wall. A low table in the center. Shelves crammed with books, jars filled with herbs and stones, carved wooden figures he didn’t recognize.

But there were normal things too. A laptop on the counter. Coffee mugs in the sink. Sneakers by the door.

It smelled like incense and coffee.

Zuri closed the door, locked it. “Sit.”

She pointed at a cushion on the floor near the low table. Makun sat, crossing his legs. The cushion was worn but clean.

Zuri sat across from him. She pulled a cloth from beneath the table, spread it out between them. The cloth was covered in symbols, circles within circles, lines connecting points he couldn’t make sense of.

From a wooden box, she took out cowrie shells and smooth stones. Set them beside the cloth.

“Fifty dollars,” she said. “Cash.”

Makun pulled out his wallet, counted out the bills. She took them without checking, stuffed them in her pocket.

“Name.”

“Makun.”

“Full name.”

“Just Makun.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. “No family name?”

“No.”

She studied him for a moment. Then wrote something on a small notepad. “Birthdate.”

“March seventh. I think.”

“You think?”

“I was abandoned. The hospital guessed.”

She wrote that down too. “Age?”

“Twenty three.”

“Family?”

“None.”

“Anyone close to you? Friends? Partner?”

“No.”

She set the pen down. Picked up the shells and stones, cupped them in both hands. “Look at the cloth. Don’t look away.”

Makun stared at the symbols. They seemed to shift in his peripheral vision, but when he focused on one, it stayed still.

Zuri closed her eyes. Her lips moved. Words in a language he didn’t recognize. Low, rhythmic. The sound made his teeth ache.

She threw the shells.

They scattered across the cloth, bouncing, settling into a pattern. Some landed face up. Others tilted on their edges.

Zuri opened her eyes. Looked at the pattern.

Her expression didn’t change.

She scooped them up. Threw again.

This time the stones fell differently. One rolled off the cloth entirely, stopping against Makun’s knee.

Zuri stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the cloth.

She threw a third time. Whispered something under her breath. The shells clattered. The stones clicked against each other.

Silence.

Makun watched her face. Saw the exact moment something changed.

Her eyes widened. Just a fraction. Her hands, which had been steady, started to tremble.

She was staring at the pattern like it had just shown her something impossible.

“What?” Makun leaned forward. “What do you see?”

Zuri didn’t answer. She reached out, touched one of the shells with a fingertip. Pulled her hand back like it had burned her.

“What is it?” Makun’s voice sharpened. “You see something. Tell me.”

Her eyes snapped to his. And for the first time since he’d walked in, there was emotion in them.

Fear.

“Get out.”

Makun blinked. “What?”

“Get out.” She swept the shells and stones off the cloth in one violent motion. They scattered across the floor, clattering. “Now.”

“I just paid you fifty dollars.”

“Keep it. Leave.” She stood, backing toward the door.

Makun stayed seated. “You saw something. Tell me what it was.”

“I didn’t see anything. I am transferring you your money. Go.”

“That’s bullshit.” He stood, fists clenching. “You saw something. Your hands are shaking.”

“I said get out!” Her voice cracked. The echo that followed was wrong. Too loud. Like multiple voices layered over hers.

The jars on the shelves rattled.

Makun stared. “What the hell…”

“OUT!”

She grabbed his arm. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. She pulled him toward the door, yanked it open.

“Wait.” Makun tried to plant his feet. “Just tell me…”

“I can’t!” The fear in her voice was raw now, real. “I can’t help you. No one can. Just go. Please.”

She shoved him.

Hard.

Makun stumbled backward into the hallway. His back hit the railing. For a second he thought it would give, send him tumbling down three stories.

It held.

The door slammed shut. Locks clicked. One. Two. Three.

Makun stood there, breathing hard, staring at the door.

“What the hell?” He stepped forward, pounded his fist against the wood. “You can’t just… I paid you!”

Silence.

“I know you saw something!” His voice rose. “Tell me what it was!”

Nothing.

“Fraud!” He kicked the door. The impact echoed down the stairwell. “You’re just another damn fraud!”

Still nothing.

Makun kicked the door again. Then stopped. His hand was shaking. Not from anger.

From something else.

Because she’d been terrified. Really, genuinely terrified.

Of what she’d seen in those shells.

He turned, started down the stairs. Anger burned in his chest, hot and sharp. Fifty dollars. Gone. For nothing. For a reading that ended with her throwing him out like he was diseased.

At the bottom of the stairs, he looked back up.

Third floor. Apartment 3B.

The curtain in the window moved. Just slightly.

Someone watching.

Makun stared at that window for a long moment.

Then he turned and walked away.

Mystics. Curses. All bullshit.

Just like everything else.

But the fear in her eyes stayed with him.

And the question she wouldn’t answer.

What had she seen?

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