This old woman has run a divination stall at the trailhead for thirty years.
In the fortune-telling trade, few are fed by the ancestors; most just get by. I won't hide it — in my youth I got by: shake the coins, say the pretty thing, take the coin. What changed? One drought year, a farmer asked about rain. I shook a hexagram as usual — Water — and said: rain within three days. On the third day, it rained. The farmer came back and kowtowed, and my skin crawled: I'd been guessing.
After that, the strangeness started. My hexagrams land seven or eight times out of ten. And not vague landings — "a noble person approaches" — but specific ones. I said "don't take the west gully tomorrow," and the west gully collapsed that morning. I said "what you lost is by the water," and they found it by the river on the third day.
Miraculous? I say no. Here's the secret: a hexagram doesn't compute the future — it lays on the table what your heart already knows. The farmer knew rain was coming; his joints told him. You're nervous about the hills; once the coins are down, your nerve has somewhere to stand. Whatever gift I have is heaven borrowing my mouth to speak your own words back.
This plague year, the queue at my stall doesn't end. I've added two rules. One: no questions about life and death — the hexagram has no business there. Two: anyone asking about the xiao must hear out my rambling after the reading — a hexagram can only point; your ears keep you alive.
Every day's reading is different, and every day means something new. Come. I'll cast one for you, free.
No charge if it fails. And if it lands — no crying.