I never imagined I’d invite a stranger into my home, let alone a fortune teller with a newborn. But something about her—her tired eyes, her quiet desperation—made me open the door. My daughter was sick, her fever relentless, and I was drowning in worry. The fortune teller said nothing about healing, only asked for shelter. That night, I gave her the guest room and tried to sleep, haunted by the sound of my daughter’s labored breathing.
Morning light spilled into the hallway as I rushed to check on my daughter. But when I opened the door, I froze. The room smelled of lavender and something older, like incense. My daughter, who’d been pale and weak, sat upright, smiling. The fortune teller stood beside her crib, whispering something I couldn’t hear. Her baby slept peacefully in her arms. I blinked, unsure if I was dreaming.
She turned to me and said, “She’ll be fine now. But she’s different.” I didn’t understand. My daughter’s fever was gone, her energy restored, but her eyes—those weren’t the same eyes I’d kissed goodnight. They held something ancient, something knowing. The fortune teller didn’t ask for thanks. She simply packed her things, kissed her baby’s forehead, and left without another word.
Weeks passed. My daughter began speaking in ways that startled me—dreams she shouldn’t remember, names she’d never heard. I tried to rationalize it, but deep down, I knew: something had changed that night. I still wonder what the fortune teller saw in her. And sometimes, when the wind shifts and the house feels too quiet, I swear I hear her baby crying in the walls.
