Hello!

Thank you for taking the time to read Whispers from the Somnium. 

I am planning to post weekly depending on how well it does and how quick I can edit. 

Without further ado, here is the first chapter 😊

The cloth in Ariella’s hand moved in slow, almost circular motions over the crystal ball. The faint rasp of her sleeve against the fabric was the only sound to break the stillness of Mystic Musings. Hours spent bent over dusty ledgers and polishing unsold stock had left her with a persistent ache between her shoulder blades.  

        Dust motes swirled and danced in the sunlight that poured through the dirty window. They were delicate, light, and smelt faintly of musty old books. According to Ariella, she heard them whispering secrets.Her once-vibrant hair had turned into a drab, unkempt mass. 

        The tiny shop, squeezed between a vape store and a dying cafe, felt like the last splintered board from a shipwreck. Unsold incense sat, crystals gathered dust, and tarot decks piqued no one’s interest. Each weary sweep of her cloth over the crystal ball felt like another stone tied to her ankles. The shop was drowning, and  with every breath, Ariella felt herself sinking with it. 

          A bell rang out as the door opened, a high-pitched tinkle that echoed through the quiet shop. The subtle metallic whisper followed, blossoming into a faint, coppery taste on Ariella’s tongue. She blinked, dismissing it as a trick of the dusty air, and her gaze landed on the new arrival.  

         She was tall and slender with thick, dark mahogany ringlets framing her heart-shaped face. Her small shoulders were pushed back, accentuating her ample bust. She moved with a quiet self-assurance, her heels striking a precise, rhythm on the old wooden floor. Her appearance created a stark, almost regal silhouette against the grimy front windows, and the dancing dust mites seemed to jerk and swirl with her powerful entry. 

           “Good afternoon,” the woman said, her chin held level, her voice carrying a faint East African accent. “My name is Makouda Embias.” She extended a hand across the counter. Her nails were short, immaculately manicured, painted a deep burgundy. “I’d like a tarot reading, please.”

       Then it hit her: an overwhelming, undeniable scent. Thick with blood and the stench of rotten meat. Bile rose, coating her tongue with a thick, coppery film that made her gag. The bad aftertaste lingered as if she had swallowed corroded iron and gritted dust. Her ribs were slammed by her heartbeat. The scent itself felt like a physical weight pressing down on her lungs; each breath a ragged gasp. It seeped into her pores, chilling her to the bone.

      She gripped the counter, knuckles white, fighting to ground herself in the shop’s familiar musty air. She forced the horror back into the locked box of her memories. The scar, a raised, angry pink line, felt not just tender but hot beneath her fingers, as if the raw wound still festered. Each brush of her nail sent a phantom jolt of pain echoing up her arm.

      Her throat felt tight, a band of ice squeezing her vocal cords. She swallowed hard, the metallic aftertaste still clinging, and forced the words past her constricted larynx: “I haven’t done readings in a while.” 

      Makouda’s gaze remained steady, unwavering, uncannily focused, as if she could see the tangle of doubts and fears beneath Ariella's skin. 

      “I understand,” Makouda said, though it was clear she didn’t — couldn't — understand what had happened that fateful night eighteen months ago. “Perhaps I’ve come to the wrong place.”

         The words, soft and laced with recognition, struck Ariella like a physical blow. A slow burn ignited beneath her skin, creeping up her neck, flooding her cheeks with desperate heat. No. Not another one.  Not again. The thought pounded into her, sharp and icy. She couldn't afford to lose this. 

          Her eyes widened with sudden, desperate clarity as she watched Makouda leave. Each graceful step towards the door was a hammer, decimating her hopes. Drowning. The shop was drowning, and this customer was the last rope. Her hands trembled, fingers curling and uncurling. A real customer — not just someone ducking in to use the bathroom — was walking out. The thought was a jolt of ice water. No. Her hand shot out, not quite reaching, and then her foot, seemingly of its own accord, darted forward. 

           “I didn’t say I couldn’t,” Ariella clarified. “It’s just…It’s been a while.” 

          Makouda paused, her eyes returning to Ariella. Her expression remained unreadable, a smooth, neutral mask.

          “Are you certain? I require clarity, not hesitation.” The words stung, precise as a needle. A dry click echoed as she forced the retort back down, the bitter taste of capitulation on her tongue.

“I’m certain,” she lied  “My rates are twenty pounds for a basic reading, forty for…” Makouda opened her handbag - a buttery-soft leather with a subtle gold clasp and withdrew a sleek wallet. From it, she extracted several crisp fifty-pound notes and placed them on the counter with a decisive motion. 

        “I believe in compensating expertise appropriately,” she said. “And I expect excellence in return.” The money sat between them, a challenge more than an offer. Ariella stared at the notes, aware that they represented the difference between keeping the lights on and closing the shop for good. 

         “I don’t usually…” she began. Ariella met Makouda's gaze. The sheer force made a shiver run down her spine. In those dark eyes, she saw no judgement or impatience—only a stark, absolute certainty, a silent command: that she would say yes.

        Makouda radiated a certainty Ariella hadn't felt in years. She carried herself like a blade drawn from a sheath, clean and unafraid, a stark contrast to Ariella's own life, which felt like a constantly collapsing ruin. Makouda had never lost everything and found herself starting over at an age when most people were settling into their comfortable lives. 

         “I was about to say I don’t usually do readings during business hours,” Ariella finished, the lie bitter on her tongue. “But I can make an exception. "Follow me upstairs, please."

        The air changed slightly as they rose higher. A faint, cloying sweetness that suggested decay replaced the scent of damp wood, wet soil, and flowers. With every step, it grew thicker, and Ariella held her breath out of instinct as her stomach knotted up in discomfort.  

        Reaching the landing, she pulled a silver cord.  With a loud, reverberating clatter, steel ladders fell. They both ascended, the ringing of their footsteps on the metal rungs echoing sharply.

        She called the attic the Reading Room. In the faint light from the white pillar candles, cobwebs glistened in dense, tangled masses A thick layer of dust covered the sideboards, and the unburned wicks of the candles stood tall, surrounded by halos of debris. The walls were a rich emerald, adorned with tapestries that added pops of colour. Lighting a lavender incense stick, its tip hissing softly, the room remained hushed.

        With the scene now set, Ariella gestured to Makouda to take her place on the kneeling cushion. While she did so, Ariella made her way to the black cloak. She removed it in one swoop, grimaced at its size, before pulling it over her head. 

      “Is there anything specific you’d like to know?” 

      “I'd like a career reading, please. A nine card too.” She beamed. “It's my lucky number.” Ariella removed the tarot deck from the cloak pocket and shuffled the cards. Once she was done, she laid them out in a straight line. 

       “Let's begin.”