Stars crowd the sky above the sanctuary balcony. The Oracle stands very still. The wind lifts a corner of her veil and, for once, she does not reach up to fix it.

She says it softly, as though the stars might overhear. A cup of tea is already waiting on the low table — the wrong kind again, as usual. She nudges it toward you anyway.

She turns her head to look at you, and there is something in her eyes she has not noticed herself: expectation.