Vol. 2 Ch. 13.1
Dust motes swirled through the afternoon sunlight that pierced my worn curtains like accusing fingers. I stood in the center of my tiny East Village apartment—three hundred and fifty square feet that had contained fifteen years of my life—and felt the weight of transition settle around my shoulders. The cardboard boxes stacked against the wall seemed to watch me, some already filled and labeled, others gaping empty, waiting to swallow the remnants of my current existence. I’d called this shoebox home for so long that leaving felt like shedding skin—necessary but raw.
I moved from corner to corner, mentally cataloging each possession. Books that had guided me through spiritual awakenings and existential crises alike. Candles burned down to stubs during countless rituals. The small altar in the corner that had been my sanctuary when rent was due and clients were scarce. My fingers trailed over crystal points and worn tarot decks, each object humming with memories.
Change was coming—good change—but that didn’t make it any less disorienting. I’d spent so many years living on the edge financially that stability felt almost suspicious, like a trap I was walking into with eyes wide open.
I settled on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, and stared at the number I’d dialed countless times over the years. Usually with anxiety knotting my stomach, wondering if Mr. Goldstein would accept yet another late payment without adding eviction to my problems. Today would be different. Today, the power dynamic was shifting.
My finger hovered over the call button. I took a deep breath, steeling myself against the strange guilt of good fortune, and pressed.
“Goldstein Properties,” came the gruff voice after three rings, exactly as it always did.
“Mr. Goldstein, it’s Rahel Vega.” I kept my tone neutral, fighting both the ingrained urge to sound apologetic and the newer temptation to sound triumphant.
“Ms. Vega.” His tone warmed slightly—he had always been fair with me, if businesslike. “Is there a problem with the plumbing again?”
“No, nothing like that,” I replied, picking at a loose thread on my bedspread. “I’m calling to give notice. I’ll be moving out by the end of the month.”
A brief pause stretched between us. I could almost see him sitting up straighter at his cluttered desk.
“I see. The rent increase too much for you? Because we might be able to work something out for long-term tenants.”
“Actually,” I couldn’t help the note of pride that crept into my voice, “I’ve acquired a new place. A condo in Hell’s Kitchen. Nine hundred square feet with a roof terrace.”
Another pause, longer this time. I pictured his raised eyebrows, the way his mouth would fall slightly open.
“Well,” Mr. Goldstein finally responded, genuine surprise evident in his voice. “That’s quite a step up. Congratulations, Ms. Vega. I have to say, I’m sorry to lose a reliable tenant, but that sounds like a good move for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, realizing I felt a strange mixture of pride and something like nostalgia. This apartment, with all its quirks and shortcomings, had been my shelter through so much.
We discussed the logistics briefly—final utilities, security deposit, key return—before ending the call amicably. He even offered to provide a reference if I ever needed one, though we both knew my condo ownership meant such references were likely a thing of the past.
I set down my phone and gazed around the apartment that had sheltered me for fifteen years. The water stain in the corner of the ceiling that resembled the state of Florida. The creaky floorboard near the bathroom that announced my midnight trips to pee. The window that needed just the right touch to close completely in winter.
“You’re getting sentimental about water damage,” I murmured to myself with a small smile.
“Place memories are powerful,” came Grandpa’s gentle voice as he materialized in his favorite spot by the window.
I didn’t startle. After years of these visitations, the appearance of my spiritual guides was as natural as breathing.
He stood now with his hands clasped behind his back, light passing through his semi-transparent form. “This apartment has been your sanctuary through much change.”
“And the site of many growth moments,” Mister B. added, appearing beside the bookshelf where I kept my reference texts on divination.
I nodded, acknowledging the truth in their observations. “It’s just a space, but it feels like more sometimes.”
“It’s natural to feel both excitement and loss during transitions,” Grandpa assured me. “Even when the change is overwhelmingly positive.”
I sank deeper onto the bed, my body suddenly leaden with the emotional weight of the past few weeks. The Green case had changed everything—my financial situation, my professional direction, my understanding of my own capabilities. Part of me still couldn’t believe that untangling a web of black magic, inheritance fraud, and spiritual manipulation had resulted in a grateful client gifting me a condo.
“You earned this change,” Grandpa said, his voice gentle but firm. “Your persistence through difficult times, your dedication to developing your gifts, your willingness to help others even when your own situation was precarious—these actions created the path to where you stand now.”
I nodded, wanting to believe him fully. The problem with being psychically sensitive was that doubt crept in from all directions—not just my own, but the collective skepticism of a world that dismissed people like me as delusional or fraudulent. Even now, with tangible evidence of my success, part of me wondered if I was deluding myself, if I’d wake tomorrow to find my new reality was just an elaborate dream.
I rose from the bed, moving to continue my packing. The boxes wouldn’t fill themselves, and dwelling on philosophical questions wouldn’t change the practical reality that I needed to be ready for the movers.
“At least the new place won’t have that peculiar smell from 3B’s cooking,” I said with a laugh, the lightness returning to my spirits as I focused on the adventure ahead rather than the chapter closing behind me.
“Or that ceiling that leaks every spring,” Mister B. added, a rare note of humor in his usually serious demeanor.
“Or neighbors who practice amateur trumpet at midnight,” Grandpa chimed in.
I placed my collection of crystals carefully into a small box, wrapping each one in tissue paper. These stones had been my tools and companions through countless readings, absorbing energies both light and dark. They deserved careful handling in this transition.
As I worked, I felt my spirits lifting. This apartment had served its purpose. If its walls could speak, they’d tell stories of midnight revelations, of tearful doubts and breakthrough moments of clarity. But walls couldn’t speak—at least not in words—and it was time to move forward.
The universe had opened an unexpected door, and I had chosen to walk through it. Whatever waited on the other side—whether mundane adjustments to new surroundings or spiritual challenges I couldn’t yet imagine—I would face it with greater resources, both material and metaphysical.
I sealed another box, labeled it “ALTAR ITEMS,” and reached for the empty one waiting beside it. The future beckoned, nine hundred square feet of possibility, and I was finally ready to claim it.
Thank you for reading! We are getting to the end of Volume 2 soon. If you enjoy the story so far and want to continue immediately, you can download full volumes on www.empowering-spirit.com/the-tarot-dimes
