Morning light filtered through my thin curtains, illuminating dust motes that danced like microscopic spirits in the golden beams. I sat cross-legged on my meditation cushion, eyes closed, breathing regulated—inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. After three hours of fitful sleep, I’d given up on rest and turned instead to consultation. Unlike Mister B., who appeared unbidden at all hours, my other guides often required invitation. Meditation was the clearest channel, the static of daily thought reduced to white noise.
My apartment felt smaller than usual, the walls pressing inward, my possessions watching with mute judgment—the tarot decks stacked on bookshelves, the crystals arranged on the windowsill, the framed diploma from the London School of Astrology. All the trappings of a profession that straddled the line between insight and illusion.
As my breathing deepened, the physical world receded. They gathered in my mind’s eye, arranging themselves in a semicircle before me—not physically present, but accessible in the space between thought and perception, that twilight realm where intention becomes form.
They were, in many ways, aspects of myself—or perhaps more accurately, aspects of the wisdom available to me. Yet each had developed a distinct personality, preferences, mannerisms, even wardrobes. Over the years, I’d stopped questioning their independent existence. Results mattered more than metaphysics.
Mister B. occupied his usual position at the center, dignified in his tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, bowtieperfectly centered beneath a chin held at a slight angle that suggested perpetual skepticism. His gray hair swept back from a high forehead, and his eyes—deep-set and dark—missed nothing.
To his right sat Grandpa, an elderly man with gentle eyes the color of well-steeped tea and weathered hands perpetually clasped as if in mid-story. His cardigan hung loosely on his stooped frame, and a wisp of white hair curled above his ear like a question mark. He radiated patience, the accumulated wisdom of slow observation.
To Mister B.’s left was Ma, who presented herself as a full-figured Black woman with an elaborate headwrap of gold and purple fabric, twisted and knotted with mathematical precision. Her arms—always adorned with stacks of bangles that clinked with her slightest movement—wrapped protectively around herself, her expression one of constant vigilance softened by profound compassion.
Slightly apart stood Auntie, crisp in her tailored pantsuit and sensible low heels. Her gold-rimmed glasses caught the imaginary light. She exuded an air of perpetual efficiency, as if the universe itself could be optimized with the right spreadsheet.
“Full house today,” Auntie remarked, checking her spiritual wristwatch with a quick flick of her wrist. “Let’s make this productive. Time is money, even on this side.”
“The child needs guidance,” Ma said, her voice rich with warmth, like honey poured over thunder. She leaned forward, bangles sliding down her wrists with a musical clatter. “What’s troubling you, babygirl?”
“I had a visitation,” I explained, keeping my eyes closed to maintain the connection. The moment I opened them, the guides would recede from this clarity, becoming impressions rather than apparent entities. “Seamus Green.”
“The deceased gentleman,” Grandpa nodded, his voice gentle as falling snow. One hand emerged from the perpetual clasp to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “Such a long life he had.”
“The dead millionaire,” Auntie corrected, eyes sharp behind her glasses. Her fingers made quick calculating motions, as if tallying invisible accounts. “Net worth north of 200 million. Real estate holdings across Manhattan. That’s who we’re talking about.”
Mister B. cleared his throat, the sound precise and contained. “Rahel has concerns about the authenticity of the experience.”
Ma’s bangles clinked as she made a protective gesture toward me. “Tell us what you saw, babygirl,” she encouraged. “Every little thing.”
I described the dream—the library with its rain-tapped windows, Seamus’s appearance, his instructions, the code numbers, and the unusual request to present myself as his mistress. The details remained sharp in my mind, refusing to soften or blur as ordinary dreams do with the coming of day.
When I finished, silence hung in the mental space we occupied. Grandpa stroked his chin with increased thoughtfulness. Ma’s eyes had narrowed protectively, her bangles stilled against her dark skin. Auntie was mentally calculating something, her lips moving slightly with unspoken numbers. Mister B.’s expression remained carefully neutral, giving nothing away.
“Well?” I prompted, the silence stretching my already frayed nerves.
“Those numbers,” Grandpa said softly, his finger tracing patterns in the air before him. “They mean something to him. Personal dates, perhaps. Special moments from his long life.”
“Or it’s a trap,” Ma countered immediately, bangles jingling with her emphatic gesture. “Someone trying to make a fool of my babygirl. Have you walking into some lawyer’s office claiming to be with a man old enough to be your great-grandfather? Absolutely not.”
“The mistress angle is actually quite strategic,” Auntie interjected, adjusting her glasses with a precise movement of her middle finger. “Creates immediate leverage. Summer would be bound by attorney-client confidentiality, but he’d also have to consider potential claims against the estate. High-risk, high-reward approach.”
“The risk being Rahel’s reputation,” Ma pointed out, one hand reaching out as if to physically shield me from Auntie’s pragmatism.
“Sometimes,” Grandpa said with infinite patience, his hands returning to their clasped position, “we must look foolish to discover the truth. Pride is a small price for justice.”
The possibility of a trap sent a chill through me, disrupting my careful breathing pattern. “You think I’m being manipulated?” I asked, the question directed to all of them and none of them.
“I think,” Grandpa replied, his voice gentle but firm, “that when the dead speak so clearly, we ought to listen. I hardly ever saw a spirit reach out without purpose.”
“But at what cost?” Ma pressed, leaning forward until her imaginary form seemed to occupy more space than physically possible. “My babygirl pretending to be some old man’s mistress? There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t time for alternatives,” Auntie pointed out practically, tapping her watch face. “This is a business transaction now. You accepted payment. The client expects results. This lead has presented itself. From a purely ROI perspective, the potential information gain outweighs the temporary discomfort.”
The contradictory advice mirrored my own internal conflict, as if my mind had fractured into separate entities to argue with itself. I sighed, the sound existing both in the meditation space and in my physical body.
“The mistress angle bothers you,” Mister B. observed, speaking for the first time since I’d described the dream. His eyes fixed on mine with uncomfortable intensity.
“Wouldn’t it bother you?” I countered, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks.
“It’s necessary,” Auntie said definitively, making a slashing gesture with her hand. “Lawyers are trained to deflect. This approach circumvents the usual barriers.”
“And if it’s a trap?” I asked, the question emerging from a knot of anxiety that had lodged itself beneath my sternum.
Ma’s expression softened, the perpetual vigilance in her eyes momentarily replaced by something deeper and sadder. “Then you walk away, babygirl. First sign of trouble, you get out. No amount of money is worth your safety.”
“There are gentle ways to tell untruths,” Grandpa added, his stooped form straightening slightly as he made his point. “Speak with respect for both yourself and for Seamus. The intent matters as much as the words.”
I opened my eyes, the morning light of my apartment suddenly harsh after the soft illumination of the meditative space. The guides faded from my immediate perception as physical reality reasserted itself, though their presence lingered at the edges of my awareness, like the afterimage of staring too long at the sun.
“So what’s the consensus?” I asked the now-empty room, my voice sounding strange to my ears after the internal dialogue.
“Proceed with caution,” came Mister B.’s voice, quieter now that my full concentration had shifted, a whisper from just beyond my peripheral vision.
“Trust your instincts,” Grandpa added warmly, his presence a gentle pressure at the back of my mind. “They’ve never led you astray.”
“Watch your back,” Ma cautioned, her energy a protective warmth around my shoulders. “And call me if you need backup, babygirl.”
“Keep it professional,” Auntie concluded, her voice crisp even as it faded. “This is business, not personal. Eyes on the prize.”
I stood, muscles stiff from sitting too long, decision crystallizing with the movement. My reflection in the window caught my attention—hair disheveled from restless sleep, dark circles beneath my eyes, the faint lines at the corners of my mouth deepened by worry. I looked like someone in need of answers, not someone prepared to provide them.
“875 Third Avenue,” I said aloud to my reflection. “21st floor.”
The dream might be deception or revelation, but I wouldn’t discover which by remaining in my apartment, consulting with aspects of myself that offered contradictory counsel. With my guides’ conflicting but well-intentioned advice echoing in my mind, I would have to navigate this unusual situation as best I could—trusting that somewhere between Auntie’s pragmatism, Ma’s protection, Grandpa’s wisdom, and Mister B.’s caution lay a path to truth.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling each vertebra align itself. The dead had reached out to me, and regardless of their motivation, courtesy demanded I answer. Even if that answer required temporary reinvention as a centenarian’s mistress.
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