Dark was her famed room with the door rarely unlocked to admit any other than herself, the fortune-teller, at least that's what people say. She was an evasive lady (at least that's what people say) and the fortunate (or perhaps the unfortunate), tight-lipped subjects of her prophecies gave no direct, solid replies to the curious inquirers. One said she had this "certain manner." Another said she "was eloquent at some times." And a third said she "spoke with a special tone of voice." How was anyone to determine exactly how she was with these already hard-to-extract descriptions? And her room? One said it was "peculiar." Another said it was "not like anything I've seen before". And a third said it was "unearthly." How was anyone to determine exactly how it was with these already hard-to-extract descriptions?
Not everyone was curious, though. And those people, they said, "It most certainly is a deception used to gain attention from the public. There is no proof that that room even exists. There is no proof that that lady even exists. It is all imagination and curiosity that creates it all. Believe me, if that lady exists, then I do not. It is that obvious." These disclaimers firmly believed their own words.
Yet, the subjects of the prophecies firmly believed their own words, or so it appeared to the public, and there have been too many whispers of her on the white cobblestone streets that many were convinced of her existence. The entirety of Starshire was full of these whispers, as Starshire was where these reports of the fortune-teller began. No one even knew where they might find that famous, locked door and that famous fortune-teller. And that fact, that solid fact, strengthened the disclaimers' argument. The disclaimers said, "You fools have searched Starshire over and over again without even a shred of evidence that says this imaginary fortune-teller exists. What do you believe? What you cannot and will not see? This is all foolishness!"
It was the time of year when the vibrant flowers wilted, dropping their petals, energy all spent. The bright green leaves of pretty spring and lovely summer shriveled into dark, dry sheets and decayed on the useless, gritty mud.