Ethan folded his arms as the psychic, an older woman draped in violet silk, traced circles over a worn deck of tarot cards. The air smelled of incense and something older—like dust and secrets.

“This is nonsense,” he muttered, but curiosity kept him in his chair.

Madame Celeste only smiled, flipping the first card. The Tower. A symbol of upheaval, destruction.

“You don’t believe,” she said, her voice soft. “But your past weighs on you, doesn’t it?”

Ethan scoffed. “Lucky guess.”

Another card. The Moon. Deception. Illusions. Hidden truths.

“You’re searching for something,” she continued. “Or… someone.”

His breath caught. He hadn’t told anyone about the sister who had vanished when they were children.

Madame Celeste placed a final card down. The Lovers. But one figure was missing—half the image seemed to fade, like an unfinished painting.

“You’ve felt it,” she whispered. “The presence in your shadow, the whispers when you’re alone. She’s still here, Ethan. Watching. Waiting.”

The room tilted. Memories resurfaced—childhood laughter, the cold grip of loss, the fleeting sensation that someone always lingered just behind him. He had dismissed it as grief, as a trick of the mind.

Until now.

The incense curled like unseen hands reaching from the past. Madame Celeste watched him with knowing eyes.

“For a skeptic,” she murmured, “you look like a man who just saw a ghost.”