9
Blake had never believed in psychics.
Blake eyed the shop window with its crystals catching the afternoon light like some kind of new-age disco ball. ‘You’re the one who booked a TikTok psychic,’ she said.
‘Great. Maybe she can manifest Leo’s phone number. Then we could just call him and end this circus.’ Blake unbuckled her seatbelt. ‘Come on, let’s see what the universe has to say.’
The sign read: Astrid Aura—Intuitive Guidance & Energy Alignment, with a small TikTok–verified badge sticker in the corner.
Inside, sage smoke mixed with something floral and heavy.
The walls were dusty pink velvet, there were shelves crowded with crystal formations, oracle decks and something labelled ‘Spiritual Emergency Kit’ that appeared to be mostly tea lights and tissues.
Astrid sat cross-legged on a velvet meditation cushion.
She was mid-twenties, wearing what looked like every piece of rose quartz jewellery from Tree of Life.
‘Welcome, Emily Blake,’ she said without opening her eyes. ‘You’re three minutes late. But your energy arrived ten minutes ago.’
Blake hesitated in the doorway. ‘Have we met?’
‘Not in this timeline.’
Chelsea raised an eyebrow. ‘She means no. You’re trending everywhere. Britt booked it under your real name,’ she said from the corner where she’d settled with her phone.
‘Great. Can’t wait to be told I have commitment issues by someone who probably got their certification from an Instagram course,’ Blake whispered to Chelsea before lowering herself onto a cushion.
‘Actually, it was a YouTube intensive,’ Astrid said without missing a beat, finally opening her eyes. They were heavily lined with dark eyeliner. ‘But your Sagittarius moon is showing. Fire sign ascending, water runs deep. You’re stubborn but feel bad about it.’
Blake snorted. ‘That could be anyone with a conscience.’
‘He doesn’t have the music in his blood the way you thought.’
Blake froze. ‘What?’
The words were too specific to dismiss. Astrid’s eyes were sharp now, despite the whole ethereal act.
‘Tap tap tap,’ Astrid whispered, her fingers drumming against her knee in a rhythm Blake knew by heart. ‘Like a heartbeat he can’t stop. Like his body keeping time to something only he hears. That’s the echo I get from your energy field. Tap tap tap.’
Blake’s hands tightened in her lap. That rhythm. Morgan at the dinner table. Leo against the bar. Three beats, always three.
Astrid continued, her voice dropping into her ‘mystical revelation’ register. ‘What he inherited though…it’s heavier than music. Older than melody. It’s responsibility.’ She paused, tilting her head like she was downloading from the cosmic wifi.
A chill ran down Blake’s spine despite the overheated room. Chelsea held her phone steady, recording the bizarre exchange.
‘The name you knew?’ Astrid shook her head, sending her earrings into a windchime symphony. ‘Leo was…borrowed. His real name has more weight. More consequences.’
‘I don’t think he lied about his name if that’s what you’re insinuating,’ Blake replied.
Astrid’s hands moved through the air. ‘Names are contracts with destiny. Some we’re born into. Some we steal for a while when we need to breathe. He gave you the version of himself he wished was real. But it wasn’t the entire story.’
The silence stretched. Blake could hear traffic outside, the normal world grinding on while hers tilted sideways.
‘Your daughter is his mirror.’ Astrid’s voice had lost some of its performative mysticism. ‘In his patterns. In his mind. Not in his music.’
Blake’s voice came out rougher than intended. ‘You must have googled us.’
‘I don’t need Google when the universe has already tagged me in.’ Astrid reached for a worn tarot deck, shuffling with muscle memory.
She pulled out a card deliberately. The Moon. A figure caught between worlds, between truth and reflection.
‘You only get one love that rearranges your atoms,’ Astrid said simply. ‘One person who makes every love after a pale comparison. And, sweetie, you’ve already had yours.’
Blake stood up abruptly, her knees protesting. ‘Thanks for the pep talk. Really uplifting.’
She turned towards the door, Chelsea was already gathering her things.
‘He remembers you.’ Astrid’s voice followed them, losing all its TikTok polish. ‘Even now. Even with an ocean and time between you, he remembers.’
Blake pushed through the door into afternoon sun, gulping air like she’d been drowning.
Chelsea caught up at the car, keys ready. ‘Well, that was—’
‘Bullshit,’ Blake finished, but her hands trembled as she reached for the door. ‘Complete wellness-industry nonsense.’
‘Pretty specific nonsense,’ Chelsea added. ‘The responsibility stuff. Him having a different name. Morgan being his mirror.’
Blake yanked open her door. ‘She probably listens to the show. We’ve been pretty public.’
‘Right.’ Chelsea didn’t sound convinced, but she knew when to let Blake process. That was the gift of a best friend who’d weathered your three-wine-bottle breakdowns, knowing when to push and when to let you marinate in denial.
They drove in silence before Chelsea spoke again. ‘You okay?’
‘I need to pick up Morgan.’ Blake kept her eyes fixed ahead. ‘Thanks for coming, Chels. Sorry it was weird.’
‘Babe, weird is literally our brand.’ Chelsea squeezed her shoulder. ‘You sure you’re good?’
Blake managed something resembling a smile. ‘I’ll call you later.’
They parted ways at the station car park, Chelsea heading back to prep Monday’s show while Blake drove on towards Morgan’s school. The afternoon sun sliced through the windscreen, forcing her to squint even with the visor down.
The psychic’s words churned in her mind as she drove the familiar streets.
Responsibility heavier than music. A borrowed name.
Blake had spent thirteen years holding on to a story around Leo, the mysterious musician who’d swept her off her feet.
Maybe she’d been wrong about everything—except how he made her feel.
By the time she pulled up outside the school gates, her mind was still spinning. But of three things she was sure: he was Leo, he didn’t lie to her, and he was one of the most incredible musicians she’d ever heard.
Morgan waited by the sculpture garden, blazer draped over one arm, already deep in her iPad. She climbed in without looking up and settling into her seat.
Blake swept three coffee cups and a parking ticket into the footwell. ‘Sorry. The psychic ran late. Apparently the universe doesn’t respect school pickup times.’
Morgan glanced up. ‘Did she say anything useful?’
Blake hesitated. How did you translate cosmic word salad for a pragmatic twelve-year-old?
‘She said that you are his mirror.’
‘Really?’ Morgan returned to her screen, but Blake caught how her fingers paused mid-swipe. ‘Do you think I am?’
‘At times.’
Blake pulled out of the empty pickup zone, the usual Friday chaos having long since cleared.
‘Lucy Pemberton says I should get off at a different tram stop,’ Morgan announced suddenly. ‘So I don’t contaminate the year-seven ecosystem.’
Blake’s grip tightened on the wheel. ‘She said what?’
‘She said I don’t have main character energy. That I’m more like an NPC who wandered into the wrong storyline.’
‘She’s a vicious little bitch.’
‘She’s consistent.’ Morgan’s voice stayed level, but Blake could hear the hurt in it.
‘You know what Lucy’s really saying? That you’re different. And she’s right. You are. But that’s not the insult she thinks it is.’
Morgan’s mouth twitched towards a smile. ‘They accelerated me,’ she added quietly.
‘Sorry?’
‘Advanced chemistry. I start Monday. Year-nine level.’ She shrugged, aiming for casual and missing. ‘Mr. Harris says if I handle the coursework, I’ll skip year eight science completely.’
Blake turned to stare at her daughter, traffic laws be damned. ‘Morgan, that’s incredible.’
‘It’s just science.’
‘It’s recognition that you’re brilliant.’ Blake wanted to reach over, to hug her daughter. But she knew better. Morgan wasn’t a hugger, and they were in Friday knock-off traffic.
After a few blocks, Blake glanced at Morgan. ‘It’s a lot. New school, the stuff with Lucy, moving up in chemistry, are you sure you’re happy with me looking for Leo right now? Because you say the word and I’ll pull the pin on this whole thing.’
Morgan turned to study her properly. ‘Do you want to stop?’
‘I want you to be okay.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
Blake slowed approaching a red light, grateful for the pause. ‘No. I don’t want to stop. But I’m terrified of what we might find. Or not find.’
‘Me too,’ Morgan admitted. ‘But not knowing is worse. At least rejection provides data. I can process data. It’s the unknown variables that trigger my anxiety.’
Blake laughed despite herself. ‘Only you would approach potential heartbreak like a lab experiment.’
‘It’s my only framework,’ Morgan said, and she returned to her iPad.
They pulled into their driveway, afternoon shadows stretching across the garden. Blake turned off the engine but neither of them moved.
‘Monday we have a sketch artist coming in,’ Blake admitted quietly.
‘I heard,’ Morgan responded, acknowledging she was listening this morning.
‘It’ll make him real. More than just stories.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you ready for that?’
Morgan finally met her eyes directly. ‘Are you?’
Thirteen years of measuring every man against one perfect week, and now they were days from giving that ghost a face.
‘We’ll do it together,’ Blake said finally. ‘Whatever happens. Whatever we find. Together.’
Morgan nodded, then surprised them both by reaching over and squeezing Blake’s hand. Quick and fierce, before pulling back.
‘Together,’ she agreed.