Seattle rain is unlike any other place in the United States. It’s not torrential like a tropical storm in Florida, but it’s persistent, cold, and seeps into the bone. It’s the kind of weather that makes people want to find answers to unexplained sadness.
That’s also why my Tarot shop, “The Hanged Man,” on Capitol Hill is always busy in the winter.
My name is Claire. In the West Coast Tarot world, I’m called “The Eye.” Not because I have magic, but because I have the ability to read people’s psychology through 78 cards with terrifying accuracy. I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in probability and intuition.
That Wednesday afternoon, the doorbell rang. A man walked in, shaking off his rain-soaked umbrella.
He was about 60 years old, wearing a hand-tailored Brioni suit, but his expensive Italian leather shoes were covered in mud. His face bore the tired lines of someone who had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders for too long.
“Are you Claire?” he asked, his voice deep and resonant.
“It's me. Please sit,” I pointed to the velvet chair opposite.
The man introduced himself as Robert Sterling, CEO of a large logistics corporation. He didn't beat around the bush. He placed a plane ticket on the table.
“I'm at a crossroads, Claire. I have a flight to Chicago on Friday to sign a merger contract. It's my life's work. But…” he hesitated, twisting his wedding ring on his hand, “…my wife is sick. She wants me to postpone it until next week. The partner said if I don't come by Friday, they'll sign with a competitor.”
He looked me straight in the eye.
“Should I stay or should I go? I need a clear answer. I need to know if this sacrifice will bring about a worthy success.”
I spread out the old Rider-Waite deck. The scent of old paper and sage wafted out.
“Concentrate on the question, Mr. Sterling. Draw three cards.”
He drew with a trembling hand.
First card: Eight of Wands – Speed, swift movement.
Second card: The Chariot – Victory, strong will, moving forward.
Third card: Ace of Pentacles – New financial opportunity, prosperity.
I looked at the cards. They screamed a clear, positive, urgent message. None of them spoke of procrastination. None of them warned of danger.
“Mr. Sterling,” I said firmly, feeling a surge of confidence. “The cards are clear. The Eight of Wands and The Chariot tell you not to delay. Speed is key. If you hesitate, the opportunity will slip away.”
I pointed to the Ace of Pentacles.
“And here's the result. A huge success. A huge profit. The universe is opening the way for you. You must go. Even sooner than planned if possible. Don't wait until Friday. Go tonight or tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Sterling's eyes lit up. That was what he wanted to hear. He needed confirmation from the supernatural to quell his guilt about his sick wife.
“Are you sure? A huge success?”
“I've never seen a more favorable reading this year,” I insisted. “Go, Mr. Sterling. Don't miss it.”
He pulled out his wallet and placed a hundred dollars on the table—double the reading fee.
“Thanks, Claire. I'll change my ticket. I'm on the flight tomorrow morning.”
He walked out the door, more confident than when he entered. I smiled, pleased that I had helped a man find courage.
Little did I know, it would be the worst reading of my life. And the most fateful reading.
Two days later. Friday.
I was making coffee in the kitchen when the TV came on in the living room. Breaking News on CNN.
“…Midwest Airline Tragedy. American Airlines Flight 402 from Seattle to Chicago suffered a catastrophic engine failure and crashed into a field in Iowa…”
The cup in my hand fell to the floor, shattering.
Flight 402. Friday. Seattle to Chicago.
That was the flight Mr. Sterling had booked in the first place. The flight he would have taken if he hadn't listened to my advice.
My heart was pounding. I rushed to the phone, my hands shaking as I searched for the passenger list. But then I remembered.
He had changed his ticket. He had listened to me. He had taken the Thursday morning flight.
I breathed a sigh of relief and sank back into my chair. I had saved him. The cards had saved him. I felt like a god. I had seen the future, I had urged him to leave early, and he had escaped death.
I waited for a thank-you call. Or at least for news of the resounding success of the merger I had predicted.
But nothing.
A week passed. Two weeks. No news.
Until Tuesday afternoon of the third week.
The door of the shop opened. Mr. Sterling walked in.
But not the triumphant man I had imagined. He looked 10 years older. His beard was scraggly, his clothes were disheveled. He did not carry the aura of The Chariot. He carried the devastation of The Tower.
I stood up, smiling in greeting: “Mr. Sterling! Thank you Ch
Oh, you're fine! I heard about the flight on Friday. It's a good thing you listened to me and left early, right? How's the merger going? It must have been a huge success like the Ace of Pentacles predicted?”
Mr. Sterling looked at me. His eyes were strange. Not angry, but deep down, a deep sadness.
He pulled up a chair and sat down, sighing deeply.
“Claire,” he said softly. “You were wrong. Completely wrong.”
The smile faded from my lips. “What?”
“I listened to you,” he began, his voice flat. “I changed my ticket to Thursday morning. I arrived in Chicago a day early. I rushed into the negotiations with the overwhelming confidence you instilled in me.”
He laughed bitterly.
“And it was a disaster. The partners sensed my impatience. They forced me to lower the price. They trapped me in legal terms. In my haste, I didn't let my lawyers review it thoroughly. I signed. As a result, my corporation was acquired for a pittance. Not only did I not get ‘huge profits,' I lost my CEO position and my brainchild to a competitor.”
I was stunned. “No way… The cards… Ace of Pentacles…”
“You're wrong, Claire. That trip was the biggest downfall of my career. If I had postponed it until next week like my wife wanted, I would have had more time to think it over. I lost my entire career because of your advice to ‘hurry up'.”
A chill ran down my spine. My reputation. My pride. It all came crashing down. I had ruined a man's career.
“I… I'm sorry…” I stammered, tears welling up in my eyes. “I don't know why… I'll give you back the money…”
“Wait,” Mr. Sterling held up his hand to stop me.
He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
It was the plane ticket for Friday's fateful flight. The plane that crashed.
“But Claire,” his voice suddenly became strangely warm. “Look at the other side of the coin.”
He placed the ticket on the table, next to the Tarot deck.
“If you guess right… If you tell me to ‘slow down', ‘wait'… I'll keep this ticket. I was on that plane Friday morning.”
He looked me straight in the eye.
“You were wrong about my career. But that fatal mistake saved my life.”
I looked up at him, incredulous.
“I lost my company. Yes. I lost my money. Yes. But that night, when I stumbled back to the hotel after my humiliating failure, I turned on the TV and saw the news about Flight 402. All the passengers were killed.”
Mr. Sterling's eyes filled with tears.
“I called my wife. She was sobbing because she thought I was dead. The moment I heard her voice, I realized: Money, status, CEO… all of it would be meaningless if I turned into ashes in that cornfield. I lost my career, but I lived to go back to her. I'll live to hug my grandchildren.”
He took my trembling hand.
“You know, for 30 years in business, I've been looking for accurate predictions. I wanted to know if the market was going to go up or down. But after this crash, I realized one thing.”
He pointed to the Fool card – the card of naive beginnings and uncalculated steps.
“Tarot is not a tool to predict the future, Claire. The future is a chaotic flow that no one can grasp. If it predicts 100%, we are just puppets.”
He smiled, a smile of someone who has just been reborn.
“Tarot is a tool to help us make safe choices for our minds at that time. You gave me the courage to act. Even though that action led to economic failure, it led to life. Isn't that a miracle?”
I looked down at the cards. The Chariot didn't mean victory in business. It meant victory over Death. The Ace of Pentacles didn't mean money. It meant the most precious gift of all: Life.
I had gotten the event wrong, but I had been right about destiny.
“I'm not the one who says ‘prophecy',” I whispered, realizing the burden of ‘prophecy' had been lifted from my shoulders. “I'm just the one who gives the choice.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Sterling stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. He didn't look as tired as he had when he first arrived. He looked relieved, free. “Thank you, Claire. For being wrong. For giving me a failure so I could continue living my life.”
Mr. Sterling left, leaving me alone in the shop. Outside, the Seattle rain was still falling, but I no longer felt cold.
The story of the businessman who escaped death thanks to a wrong reading spread like a legend in the Tarot and spiritual world in the US. It did not diminish my reputation. On the contrary, it completely changed the way people viewed this profession.
People no longer came to me to ask: “What will happen?”
They came to ask: “What should I do to avoid regrets?”
I hung the Chariot and Ace of Pentacles on the wall, framed in glass. Not to boast of my prophetic abilities, but to remind myself of the greatest lesson of a Reader:
Sometimes, the universe tricks us with failures, just to protect us from unforeseen tragedies to redeem.
And that, is the real magic of the cards.