TarotScope of the Day

The currents of the Duat tangled with the breath of the living. Messages drifted astray like papyrus torn from careful hands. The god of writing, Thoth, had turned his ibis head back toward his own footsteps. Time folded like linen prepared for burial. « Do not rush the river, » Thoth murmured to those who sought clarity. « The current knows where it bends. » Continue reading …

By mid-morning, a rumour threaded through the streets : this was the Season of Overflow. « There is no such thing as too much, » said Mrs Alder from the flower stall, as she handed out extra peonies with every purchase. « The world has loosened its belt. » And indeed, it had. Continue reading …

In the lowlands where the river forgot its name, there was once a season known as the Soft Turning. At the centre of the valley stood an old well called the Listening Well. For generations, the well had been sealed. But on the first morning of the Soft Turning, a young caretaker named Elian found the stone cover warm to the touch, as if the well itself were breathing. « It’s time, » whispered the reeds. Continue reading …

Li Wei saw it first. He was standing on the old stone bridge at dawn, watching the river struggle through winter ice, when the air shimmered with heat. The sky rippled, and from the fire-light emerged a horse made of living embers. Its mane flowed like molten silk, its hooves never touched the ground, and its eyes burned with a knowing that made Li Wei’s heart race. « So it’s true … » he whispered. Continue reading …