Somewhere Only We Know

I’m going to preface this with a trigger warning for suicide. If you’re sensitive to that topic, you might want to skip this one.

Some readings fade with time. Others never leave you.

K came to me with a heavy heart, her worry focused on J, a close friend. At the time, I was still new to Lenormand, keeping my readings simple—just three-card pulls. I shuffled my deck and drew the cards: Garden + Coffin + Tree. The news was grim.

I flipped through my reference books, hoping I was misinterpreting it. But the message remained clear. I saw death. “A death that will impact a lot of people—after a long struggle with addiction or depression.”

The three dots on our messaging app danced. Then K responded: “I’m afraid he’s going to kill himself in prison.”

I had no words. I couldn’t dispute it.

Three months later, her fears became reality. J died by suicide in prison—surrounded by people, yet completely alone. Addiction and depression had weighed on him for years, and when incarceration closed in around him, he saw no way out.

The news shattered me. I was that little girl again—the one terrified of damnation after shaking a Magic 8 Ball. Had I done something wrong? Had predicting it somehow caused his death?

For nearly a month, I was hesitant every time I reached for my deck. I feared seeing those same cards again, especially when reading for my loved ones. Meanwhile, K was reeling from her loss. I wanted to help, to bring her some measure of peace. But how?

The recent, unshakable experience surrounding my mother-in-law’s ashes forced me to reconsider my connection to the spiritual world. Could I use my newfound ability to reach J? Without telling K, I pulled cards with him in mind. The Tower.

Isolation. Loneliness.

How lonely he must have felt, to take his own life. For centuries, many faiths condemned suicide as an unforgivable sin, dooming souls to purgatory. Was he trapped somewhere he couldn’t escape? I couldn’t bring myself to tell K what I found, knowing it wouldn’t ease her grief.

And yet, something in me wasn’t ready to give up. One day, as we chatted about my growing ability to communicate with spirits, I decided to try again. This time, I asked the cards directly about him:

Dog + Anchor + Tower + House + Coffin.

“He feels stuck,” I told her. “Isolated. His home is death now—or maybe, his home is at the end of everything.”

K agreed. “He always felt like he was never meant for this world.”

Then, I tried something I’d never done before. I focused on his name and tried to recall a photo of him K had sent me a year or so before. I reached through the Veil and felt I’d made contact, despite never having met him. What do you want to tell her? I asked, then pulled again.

Bear + Book + Key + Sun + Clover.

I hesitated. “Was he… like a teddy bear?”

K responded, “I called him Bear.”

A shiver ran through me, but I pressed on. “He—the Bear—wants you to know that you were his answer. That you were a light in his life. And the Clover… it speaks of brief happiness. I don’t know what he means by ‘the answer,’ but maybe you do?”

“I do.”

J had once confided in her, convinced he would never be worthy of love, never find someone who truly cared. But she had proved him wrong. She was the answer to his deepest fear. Even if just for a fleeting moment, she had brought him light and love in a life otherwise filled with darkness. We were both in tears by the end of the reading. 

That night, I put my cards away with a new understanding. I realized this gift wasn’t just about glimpsing the future. With my newfound ability, I realized it was also about connection—between past, present, and futures, the living and the dead. And sometimes, the right message at the right time could bring peace to both.

⭒☾⭒