On a grey autumn afternoon, I found myself sharing a carriage on the 10:15 from London to Manchester with a strikingly welldressed young woman. I still cant explain how she managed to persuade me to let her read my fortunes. She was a thirtysomething brunette with a modern bob and a figure that would have made any of us who love our curves a little envious. Her smile was warm, her chatter lively, but there was something odd about her eyeswell, rather about the dark sunglasses perched on her nose.
It was a drizzly day, clouds hanging low over the countryside, and those lenses were almost black. I wondered whether she was trying to hide tired circles or a bruise. I kept looking for any excuse to justify the strange request, but curiosity gnawed at me. I knew only that her name was Emily and that she worked somewhere in the hospitality sector. Asking a nearstranger, Why are you wearing those shades in such gloom? felt intrusive; perhaps she had an eye condition.
So I kept my mouth shut and drifted into the kind of idle banter that strangers on a train usually exchange. Then, with a sudden shift in her tone, she said, Emma, would you like me to tell your fortune? My greatgrandmother was a genuine clairvoyant, not one of those charlatans you see on the street corners. Want to know what lies ahead? It could be fun.
I shrugged, halflaughing, No thanks, Emily. I dont put any stock in cards.
She pressed on, Then theres nothing to fear. I forced a confident tone, Im just not interested. A strange itch tickled the back of my mind, as if I could scratch an invisible spot. Almost without thinking, I replied, Well, why not give it a try? The thought of a quick, harmless diversion seemed less awful than the alternative of continuing in silence.
Emily reached into her handbag and produced a velvet pouch. Inside lay a deck of tarot cards, which she set on the tray between us. She slipped off her sunglasses, revealing two massive, dark lenses that completely covered her eyes. My heart jumped.
How will you read them if you cant see? I whispered, nervous.
Dont worry, Emma, she said, voice calm, I feel the cards as theyre placed. Lets begin. She put her glasses back on, the dark lenses making her stare almost frightening.
I shrugged, forgetting that she couldnt see my gestures. Emily spread the cards in a circle, following the usual ritual, and said, Turn over the card nearest to you; it shows the past.
My hands trembled as I lifted a card. It was a blank, unmarked sheet. She frowned. Strange, she murmured. A blank page means you werent there in the past. How could that be?
What kind of deck is this? I asked, trying to sound steady, though a chill ran down my spine. Normal cards never look like that.
She suggested we try again. I wanted nothing more than to finish my bag, step off at the next station, and escape the unsettling feeling. Yet I obliged, drawing another card. It was blank again. My suspicion grew, and I asked, Maybe we should stop? It seems all the cards are the same. This feels like a joke.
Emilys brow furrowed. I assure you, the cards are genuine. The designs are etched with a fine needle I can feel thembut right now the surfaces are completely smooth. Trust me, Im shocked too. Lets try one more, something about the present.
I scoffed, inhaled sharply, and pulled two cards at once, feeling their texture. They were pristine, flawless sheets of creamcoloured paper. I tossed them back at her. Enough of this farce, I said, irritation bubbling. Why are you doing this?
She seemed genuinely baffled, her cheeks paling. I swear, I had no intention of deceiving you. I just thought it would be a little entertainment on the journey. Lets have one last try, for future reference.
I mimicked her tone, angry but composed, and took the next card. When I turned it over, the blankness stared back at me. My future is as white as this, I muttered, halflaughing. What am I supposed to do with that?
Emilys face turned a shade paler, almost mottled with nerves. Does it mean Ill die soon? she asked, voice trembling.
I widened my eyes but didnt retort. I simply gathered my coat and handbag, glanced out the window, and muttered under my breath, Who knows? Everything ends sometime. I stepped out of the carriage at the next stop, my mood soured by the bizarre encounter.
In the platform, a man leaned against a pillar, smoking a cigarette. I asked, Got a lighter? He nodded, handed it over, and, with a grin, slipped it back into his pocket as the train hissed away. I lit my cigarette, exhaled a ring of smoke, and felt a little lighter.
A nervous passenger nearby glanced my way, eyes wide. I offered a halfsmile, Dont worry, dear. Death isnt on anyones schedule today. Im just a bit offbalance, thats all.
As I walked away from the station, I thought about the whole episode. It reminded me that some people will try to sell you certainty, even when the truth is as blank as a fresh page. The real magic isnt in cards or visions; its in accepting that lifes story is written by us, moment by moment. And that, perhaps, is the most comforting fortune of all.
