2

The morning began with cold light and a dull pounding in my head, as if my brain had decided overnight to turn against me. I pulled an oversized hoodie over my head, ran a hand through my messy hair, and briefly considered just skipping university altogether. But no. I couldn't afford to miss another lecture. Stifling a yawn, I grabbed my bag, stepped into the hallway—and stopped dead in my tracks.

A package lay in front of my door. No sender, no name, just a plain brown parcel, neatly sealed with tape. I frowned. That was... odd. I got packages all the time, but those came plastered with ugly, colorful PR stickers, oversized logos, and addresses reminding me that some company was hoping I'd showcase their product on camera. But this? No branding. No hint of who had sent it.

Carefully, I picked it up, feeling the light weight—barely more than a few sheets of paper. My stomach twisted in an odd way. Slowly, with an unconscious caution that unsettled even me, I tore off the tape. Opened the box. And froze.

Inside was an old photograph.

My breath caught.

I knew this picture. God, I knew it so well it was burned into my retinas.

Me—maybe seven years old, all long, skinny legs and a grin that showed off every gap in my teeth. And behind me: Helen.

My sister.

She was fourteen in the photo, her dark curls tied into a loose braid, her arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders. We stood by the coast, somewhere in Portree, with gray waves in the background. I remembered it being windy that day, my hair whipping in all directions, and Helen laughing as I complained the wind was "going to kill me."

A lump formed in my throat. I turned the photo over.

On the back, scrawled in black ink, was a single note:

"You remember, don't you?"

My heart pounded against my ribs.

Next to the photo lay a tarot card. I recognized it even before I looked at it properly.

The High Priestess.

Intuition. Deception.

Instinctively, my fingers traced the edges of the box. The card felt old, worn. Not a new, glossy one from a modern deck, but one that had lived. My skin prickled.

Helen.

It had to be from her.

I swallowed dryly as memories surged to the surface, uncontrollable, intrusive.

The last time I had seen Helen, I was twelve. After our parents' divorce, everything had changed. Helen stayed with our father in Portree, I moved with our mother to Brighton. Two worlds drifting apart until only phone calls remained. Then texts. Then... nothing.

I didn't know exactly when it stopped. Just that it did.

But before? Before, we had been inseparable. Helen was my universe. Seven years older, wiser, fearless. She had protected me, confided in me, let me sleep in her bed when I had nightmares.

And then—the baby.

I sucked in a sharp breath as another memory cemented itself in my mind.

Helen, at nineteen, with a pale face and nervous hands.

A one-night stand, she had said. A mistake.

And yet, she had wanted the baby.

I had asked her if it would be a girl or a boy.

"A girl," she had whispered. "I just know."

My niece.

A bitter smile flickered across my lips.

How old would she be now? Twelve? Thirteen?

God.

I pressed my fingers against my forehead, suddenly feeling lightheaded.

Why now? Why after all these years?

I stared at the High Priestess in my hand, the serene, all-knowing woman on the card, sitting between two pillars—mystery itself.

What was Helen trying to tell me?

A sense of unease crawled up my spine.

I bit my lip, slipped the photo and the card into my bag, and shook off the thoughts.

I had to go.

But the uneasy feeling in my stomach remained.

🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

Lectures were the perfect place to lose yourself.

I sat in the back row, twirling a pen between my fingers, trying to focus on my professor's monotonous drone.

But my gaze kept drifting to my bag, where the old photo and tarot card were tucked away.

Helen.

I shook my head internally. No. I wasn't going to think about her right now.

So I forced my focus elsewhere.

Psychology.

Ironically, the subject I had chosen to understand the mechanisms behind human behavior—and use them for my own advantage.

The professor was talking about cognitive dissonance, the feeling of inner conflict when someone held contradictory beliefs.

I couldn't help but smirk.

Sounds like my followers.

They wanted to believe the cards guided them, but deep down, they knew it was really them.

They wanted to believe in signs but only looked for them when they fit.

I rubbed my forehead, trying to push the thoughts aside.

When the lecture ended, the next one began—social psychology.

But at some point, halfway through, I stopped taking notes.

Leaning back, I let my gaze wander across the room.

What was the professor talking about? Group dynamics? Boring.

I couldn't sit through another minute.

Silently, I packed my things and left the hall.

Outside, the air was cool, carrying the scent of damp grass and distant car exhaust. I pulled my coat tighter around me and headed toward the park.

I liked watching people.

Not in the way everyone did when they sat in a café, killing time.

I really watched.

Saw what they did without realizing it.

A couple on a bench. Their hands brushed fleetingly, but he looked away whenever she met his gaze. Probably a bad date. Or worse—one-sided feelings.

An elderly woman feeding pigeons with breadcrumbs, despite a sign clearly forbidding it. Rebellion in its gentlest form.

A man in his mid-thirties, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing wildly as if the wind could carry his words better. Frustration shadowed his eyes. Someone who felt unheard.

I let my gaze drift further, storing every expression, every movement in my mind.

People were so predictable.

They thought they were complex, unfathomable.

But in the end, they were patterns.

Reactions to things they didn't even understand about themselves.

I could have sat there forever.

But eventually, darkness fell.

And I had a role to play.

🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

Back in my apartment, I changed for the upcoming event.

I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.

Long, sleek, dark blonde hair cascaded down to my waist. My amber-brown eyes looked almost golden in the warm light, my straight nose and full lips forming a face so many had described as "gentle" or "mystical."

I knew what people wanted to see in me.

And I gave it to them.

I chose a black lace dress, its delicate embroidery tracing subtle patterns along the shoulders and sleeves. Elegant, but not overdone.

The kind of dress that hinted at mystery without being theatrical.

Crystal accessories—amethyst, rose quartz, moonstone.

Perfectly arranged, as if I had picked them at random.

My septum piercing glinted under the light, a contrast to the otherwise delicate appearance.

A detail that often raised questions.

"It doesn't suit you," a friend had once said. "It makes your face look... too sharp."

I had only smiled.

Maybe that was exactly the point.

With the final touches in place, I took a deep breath.

Tonight, I would be the perfect version of Claire again.

The one they all wanted to see.

The mysterious, elegant tarot influencer with the right words, the perfect smile, the flawless facade.

Helen's photo flashed through my mind.

I ignored it.

I was good at ignoring things.