The notification sound sliced through the apartment like a knife—sharp, unexpected, intrusive. I jolted upright from where I’d been slouching on the couch, my half-eaten bowl of ramen sloshing dangerously. After hours of silence broken only by the occasional car passing by, the electronic ping felt almost violent, an assault on the cocoon of disappointment I’d wrapped around myself.
Three days had passed since my last video’s humiliating debut. Three days of checking analytics, refreshing numbers that refused to grow, and finally giving up. I’d spent the morning applying for receptionist positions at dental offices and insurance companies, the afternoon crying into a pillow, and the evening staring blankly at a Netflix show I couldn’t recall the name of even as I watched it.
I set down the ramen and reached for my laptop, expecting another marketing email from some spiritual supply company that had somehow gotten my address. Or worse, a notification that someone had unsubscribed from my channel, reducing my following to a single probable bot.
Gmail loaded slowly, teasing me with its blue progress bar. When it finally opened, a single unread message sat at the top of my inbox.
Subject: “Your Videos Have Changed My Life”
My finger hovered over the trackpad, suddenly hesitant. Spam, obviously. Or someone who’d accidentally clicked on my video and now wanted to mock me. Or a distant relative who’d stumbled across my channel and felt obligated to offer empty encouragement.
The sender’s name—Jason Green—meant nothing to me. No one I knew from school or work or family gatherings. A stranger.
I clicked it anyway, curiosity overriding caution.
“Dear Rahel,
I’ve watched every one of your videos. Your insight into the Death card particularly resonated with me during a difficult transition. The way you describe transformation—not as an ending, but as a necessary clearing away of what no longer serves us—gave me the courage to make changes I’ve been avoiding for years.
Your empathic approach to the cards feels different from other readers I’ve watched. There’s an authenticity to your interpretations that connects on a deeper level. You don’t just read the cards; you feel them. And you help your viewers feel them too.
I would very much like to book a private reading, in person if possible. I understand you must be incredibly busy with your online success, but I’m happy to pay $100 upfront via PayPal to secure your time. I’m particularly interested in guidance around family dynamics and inheritance issues, if that’s something you’re comfortable addressing.
Thank you for sharing your gift with the world.
Sincerely,
Jason Green”
I blinked, read it again. Then a third time.
Someone had watched my videos. Not just the most recent failure, but all of them. Someone had listened to my explanations of the Death card—something I said in the middle of my second video, which had an entirely different topic, and which I had filmed when I still believed I could build something meaningful with my channel.
My throat tightened, a knot of emotion forming that I couldn’t immediately identify. Validation? Relief? Suspicion?
The email continued to glow on my screen, its words unchanging with each reread. My pulse quickened, a flutter beneath my skin like trapped moths.
I set the laptop aside and stood, needing to move, to process. The small apartment allowed only a few paces in any direction before hitting a wall or furniture, but I paced anyway, three steps one way, turn, four steps back, turn again.
“Ma?” I called softly to the empty room. “Are you there?”
No response. The spirit guides came and went on their own schedule, rarely when summoned directly. It figured they would be absent now, when I actually wanted their opinion.
I returned to the laptop and read the message once more, this time more critically, looking for warning signs or red flags.
I glanced back at the email. “…your online success…”
A laugh escaped me, sharp and sudden. Online success. The irony was almost painful. He thought I was successful, that I was busy with readings and clients. Didn’t he see the numbers at the bottom, two views, seven views, nineteen views? A big fat two, a two that told that I had two followers, one of them likely Jason Green himself. A number that showcased how I definitely was not successful at all.
But then there was the mention of payment. Real money. One hundred dollars. This wouldn’t solve my problems, but it was a beginning. Something that would make me feel better at least.
I read the email again, this time focusing on what it didn’t say. There was no mention of my appearance or requests for personal details beyond the reading. No obvious romantic overtures or creepy undertones. Nothing about where he’d found my channel or why he’d decided to watch all my videos.
Just a request for guidance about “family dynamics and inheritance issues.” Specific enough to seem genuine, vague enough not to reveal too much upfront.
The flutter in my chest continued, but it had changed character—from the nervous pulsing of suspicion to the rapid tattoo of possibility.
A real client. A real reading. Real money.
“What do you think?” I asked the empty room, half-hoping one of the guides would materialize to offer advice.
The apartment remained silent, the only sound the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car horn from the street below.
I drummed my fingers against the laptop, a rhythm matching my heartbeat. If I agreed to meet this stranger, what was the worst that could happen? Public place, daytime meeting—basic safety measures covered. If he turned out to be a creep, I could leave. If he was legitimate…
If he was legitimate, this could be the beginning. The first client always leads to a second, doesn’t it? Word of mouth. Referrals. The seeds of a actual business doing what I loved, what I was good at.
My fingertips tingled, a sensation I’d come to associate with intuitive nudges. Not danger, but opportunity.
I moved the cursor to the reply button, then hesitated. Was I being naive? Desperate? Was I seeing signs of legitimacy because I wanted—needed—them to be there?
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to clear my mind. To feel beyond the immediate excitement and financial relief. To sense any undercurrents of deception or ill intent.
Nothing came. No warning bells, no prickling at the back of my neck, no sudden chill in the room. Just the continued flutter of possibility.
When I opened my eyes, Mister B. stood by the window, his form faint but present, twilight filtering through his translucent silhouette.
“An opportunity presents itself,” he said simply, then faded before I could ask for more specific guidance.
Typical. The spirits were never forthcoming when I actually wanted advice.
But his brief appearance felt like a confirmation nonetheless. I clicked “reply” and watched the cursor blink in the empty composition box.
A real client. A real reading. Real money.
And perhaps—though I hardly dared to think it—a real beginning.
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