A chance encounter with a stranger clutching a taxidermied owl in a vintage typewriter shop will unveil a cryptic message synchronized with the celestial syzygy of the day. Beneath the crepuscular glow of a flickering streetlamp, a tattered page from a 19th-century almanac will reveal your name misspelled in bloodred ink on line seventeen. Beware the crimson scarf tangled in your backyard fence—it foretells a snapped pencil and the silent umbrage of someone standing just behind your left shoulder.