I Paid a Fortune Teller's Bus Fare – The Note She Slipped Me Uncovered a Terrible Secret

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I Paid a Fortune Teller's Bus Fare – The Note She Slipped Me Uncovered a

Terrible Secret


A quiet morning with his sick young son took an unexpected turn for single father Daniel when he assisted an elderly woman on the bus. The woman was a fortune teller who slipped a mysterious note into his hand. Daniel took it, unaware that her parting words would soon haunt him in ways he had never expected.



It was a dull, gray morning in California, the sort that feels like the universe paused and forgot to wake up. My one-year-old son, Jamie, was secured in his stroller, his small breaths fogging the plastic cover. He had been feverish all night, and every faint cry cut through me sharply.


I pressed a pacifier into his hand and checked once more that the diaper bag hanging over my shoulder had everything. Formula? Present. Spare clothes? Present. A worn-out dad running on coffee and hope? Also, present.


Raising him alone wasn't the life I had pictured. My wife, Paulina, was my everything, and her passing during childbirth left my world empty. But Jamie was my anchor now, and every step was for him.


"Almost there, buddy," I whispered, adjusting his blanket. "You’ll be better soon, I promise."


I softly touched his forehead, remembering the sleepless night behind us. "Your mama would know exactly what to do," I murmured, my voice trembling.


The bus screeched to a stop, and I lifted the stroller with one hand, gripping the railing to keep steady.


"Let's go, everyone! People have places to reach!" the driver called out.


"My son’s sick," I responded, struggling with the stroller. "Just a moment."


"Alright, just move faster."


I suppressed a sharper response, settling Jamie into the corner. The bus wasn’t crowded—few riders with headphones or partially open newspapers.


At the next stop, she stepped on.


She seemed in her seventies, her appearance unusual for her age. She wore flowing skirts, a scarf tightly tied around her head, and silver bangles jingled on her wrists. Her dark eyes lined with kohl scanned nervously as she searched through a weathered leather purse.


"I don’t have enough for the fare," she said quietly, her voice with an accent I couldn’t identify.


The driver frowned. "Lady, I don’t run charity. No money, no ride. Walk if you can’t pay."


She looked flustered. "Please. I’m Miss Moonshadow. I’ll read your future for free. Just let me ride." Her trembling hands reached out. "I need to get somewhere urgent."


He rolled his eyes. "I don’t want any of that nonsense. Pay or get off."


Her face blushed, and she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes locking with mine for an instant before she looked away. The fear there was raw, real. And something else I couldn’t quite identify.


"Hey! If you can't pay, get off now," the driver snapped, voice sharp.


That was enough. I rose to my feet. "I’ve got it," I said, digging into my pocket. "Let her stay."


The driver muttered under his breath as I handed some bills over.


The woman turned to me, her eyes meeting mine with a weight I couldn’t explain. "Thank you," she whispered. "You didn’t have to. I can see you carry many burdens."


"It's nothing," I replied. "We all need help at times."


Miss Moonshadow moved to the back seat, but I could feel her eyes watching me. Jamie began to stir in his stroller, and I leaned down to calm him, my hand lightly touching his fevered cheek.


"Shh, it’s okay, little guy," I said softly. "Daddy’s here."


When my stop arrived, I moved the stroller toward the door. As I passed her, Miss Moonshadow reached out, clutching my arm with surprising strength.


"Wait," she said, pressing a small, folded note into my palm.


"What’s this?" I asked, stunned.


Her voice was quiet. "You’ll need it. Trust me. Sometimes, the truth hurts before it heals."


The driver called for me to get off quickly, and I nodded stiffly, stepping onto the sidewalk. The paper felt strangely heavy in my pocket, but I ignored it, just puzzled.


The doctor’s waiting room was filled with crying babies and tired parents when I arrived. I kept my focus on Jamie, who had fallen back asleep in his stroller, his feverish face appearing tiny.


"Mr. Daniel?" a nurse called.


"That’s us," I responded. "Come on, buddy. Let’s get you checked out."


She stepped out and announced Jamie was next, saying the doctor would see him within five minutes. I sank into a chair, exhaustion washing over me. Without thinking, my hand moved to the note in my pocket. I pulled it out, smoothing the creases before unfolding it.


The sharp words hit me hard:


"HE’S NOT YOUR SON."


I blinked, reading it again. Then again. My heartbeat roared in my ears, and I quickly shoved the note back in my pocket, as if it might burn me.

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