“Are you sure you really want to know your future?” he asks as I dig through my bag in search of appropriate amounts of loose change for the rather mundane looking machine hanging on the wall.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But I’m curious and it’s cheap.”
“That’s because it’s just a trick to steal your money.”
The coins make a hollow clicking noise as they fall through the machine, followed by something like gears turning though nothing moves, and then a small piece of paper like a faded business card falls into my hand.
Someone close will betray you.
“Well, it won’t be me,” he says, reading over my shoulder.
I flip the card over to see if it has anything else to say.
He is a liar, it tells me. He already has.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.