Waiting for a Future to Tell

Behind the slightly dusty glass of an old tobacco shop window, a box of tarot cards stands upright, holding its ground with a quiet dignity. The label reads taotl, the colours still vivid despite the years: red flames, green leaves, a central emblem that seems both protective and dangerous. Beneath, the name Masenghini anchors it in a very specific history of Italian card-making, a craft now mostly relegated to collectors and the nostalgic.

Around it, other objects share the same slow fate: a light-blue school exercise book titled Quaderno, some patterned boxes, a rolled cylinder of bright turquoise paper. Everyday relics, all bathed in the soft, uneven light that only old glass and time can produce. There is no attempt at modern merchandising here—no signs, no prices in bold—only a still life that could have been set decades ago and then left untouched.

The tarot waits, not impatiently but with the calm endurance of something that knows its purpose is not for everyone. It is there for the rare passer-by who stops, leans in, and feels the pull of curiosity. The cards inside will not call out; they will only reveal themselves when invited, when someone is ready to shuffle them into the present.

Quietly waiting, year after year, for somebody eager to know his own fate.