The room inside was a circle. No windows. No corners. In the center, instead of a massage table, there was a shallow basin carved from a single piece of black obsidian. Water, so still it looked like glass, reflected a single candle floating above us—though I never saw where the candle was perched.
“I said you’re late,” she repeated, turning her back to me. “Not for the clock. For yourself.”
We all have that one place in town we walk past a hundred times without really seeing it. For me, it was the narrow storefront wedged between the vintage bookshop and the closed-down bakery on Elm Street. No sign. Just a single, frosted glass door painted the color of midnight plums and a small brass plaque that read: “M. LeClair – By Appointment Only.”
Let me rewind. The week had been a disaster. A leaking roof, a missed deadline, and a stiff neck that felt like I’d been carrying the world on my shoulders. My friend Lena, who has an uncanny knack for finding the hidden and the healing, slid a plain white card across the coffee shop table. No logo. Just an address and a time.