“Well, this is a good reading for the little one. Fortunate, really, that she’s in a safe place now, cared for, not wandering or facing danger. There’s nothing concrete to prove yet, if you haven’t found her, but the card speaks of trust. This isn’t meant to soothe you; if something had happened, I’d have said it outright. As long as she’s alive, there’s hope. All we can do is wait for the right fate. She’s lucky, too—currently near kind-hearted people, not those who would hoard or exploit her. According to the reading, she’s now with a local household—not in a pet shop or breeder’s place. Still, it’s wise to check those places and put up notices, especially at veterinary clinics. If they are keeping her, they’ll likely take her there for a check-up. The card suggests she didn’t wander straight into this home—something else nudged her path.”

It’s strange that I turned to tarot. And even the I Ching. All the things I used to dismiss as superstitious. Is it that, in misfortune, we’re drawn to escape this rigid, indifferent world? I’ve tried everything to find Toe, to make sure she doesn’t suffer in this city of traps. She’s just a silly little bird.

Now it’s Tuesday. More than a week—ten days—since Toe went missing. This morning, I got a call from an unfamiliar number. On the line, a middle-aged woman said Toe had died, and that she herself had buried her.

I just went to meet her, at the spot where she buried Toe: in front of the Ministry of Industry and Trade, Hai Ba Trung Street. She even placed a lunchbox on top and stacked some bricks over it to keep rats from digging her up. She buried her last Monday, and only now saw the notice I posted at the alleyway entrance.

She kept comforting me, repeating over and over that I needed to recite sutras for Toe, the Kṣitigarbha sutra maybe, visit some website or another—she swore on her honor that it would help Toe, and help me. I felt dizzy, unable to follow what she was saying.

And here it is—the answer I’ve been searching for all these days: beneath a black plastic food container, on a road rumbling with traffic. Why does the answer seem so simple? So terrifying. What do I do now? Should I dig her up and bring her home?

Maybe I should take her to the Red River…

My little bird, who smelled faintly of yellow-moon cookies. I don’t even dare think of her now. All her quirkiness, tenderness, and sweetness are frozen forever, now death itself. What is death, anyway? It looks like a period at the end of a sentence. But if it’s truly the end, why does it still hurt so much?

“Spread the message—100 pairs of eyes are better than two. Any leads might come from a young man or a middle-aged office woman, someone working regular hours.

Pay attention to places under construction, or farms where they grow ornamental plants and sell seedlings. If you run into a mason, a landscaper, a street sweeper—don’t hesitate to ask.

The place might be a house under renovation, dark inside, a bit noisy. It could have fresh cement, or be under interior remodeling. There may be an arched roof and glass windows. Or a stone bench, maybe a swing in the front yard—keep your eyes open.

Hopefully this helps you narrow the search and imagine the area better. Whether you find her or not is up to fate. The cards only aid what’s already in motion, guided by luck and blessing.

The reading brought a lot of light. If the bond remains, fate will find a way. If not, then no meeting will come of it. This reading isn’t just for today or tomorrow—it carries long-term weight. So take time to reflect. I’ll end the spread here.”