It's late. Too late for sense. Full moon bleeding silver down the cliffs like a divine nosebleed.
I'm back in the shawl. Yes, that shawl. The one that makes me look like a cursed widow with questionable hobbies. The one that smells like regret, desperation, and one too many spiritual journeys.
I'm in a grotto this time. Real sacred vibes. You can tell because of the candles—unsettling little things with unnatural blue flames, flickering like they know something I don't.
There's music. Low and echoing. Flutes, maybe. Or some poor bastard sobbing into a hollow bone. The kind of music that makes your spine curl and your nipples wonder if they're being watched.
And in front of me, a pool. Still. Radiant. Glowing like it's hiding radioactive secrets or someone dropped a god-tier soul in there. Smoke rises off it in little serpent trails, curling around my toes like curious ghosts.
Across the pool sits her.
The oracle. Hooded. Robed. Entire cloak embroidered with golden llamas. I shit you not. Real ones. Marching in circles. Their thread glinting in the moonlight like smug prophecies.
I brought cookies this time. Pistachio and date. No raisin. I left them on a carved stone dish like a proper supplicant. I even bowed. I never bow.
She's mumbling. Low. Cryptic. Every syllable sliding out like syrup over a cursed altar.
"...you ate a Mogwai…"
I freeze. "Wait, what?"
The llama-robe doesn't flinch. Doesn't look up. Just keeps crooning like a bad fever dream.
"You… devoured the sacred fluff… the blessed one… the child of the moon… Mogwai…"
I blink. "I swear I have no idea what you're talking about."
She tilts her hood just slightly, as if annoyed. "Mogwai," she corrects me, more sternly. "Not migwai. Do not be flippant."
"I don't know what a Mogwai is!" I hiss. "Is it a cultist? A pastry? Something with a tail?"
The oracle's hands rise. Slow and ominous.
"Be gone… foul soul. You who carries crumbs of sacred fluff in your karmic gut. The stars will not wash you clean. You who snacketh where thou should not snacketh—begone."
"Snacketh?" I repeat. "Okay now you're just making this up."
The blue candles flicker with offended wrath. One snuffs itself out.
"I brought cookies!" I yell. "Good ones! You want a pistachio? You want to talk about sacred transgressions—let's talk about that llama cloak, huh? What's that, divine embroidery? Karma couture?"
She raises one long, trembling finger.
I flinch.
She booms: "Foul!"
The pool flashes. My skirt flutters. My soul pouts.
"Fine!" I spit, snatching the cookie plate. "I hope you choke on your own vibes!"
I stomp out of that sacred grotto like a scandal in sandals, still wrapped in penitence and fresh humiliation.
The moon watches me go.
And I swear—swear—the golden llamas winked.