Proof of Her Presence
Lady Luck does not arrive with thunder or spectacle. She speaks in patterns, in nudges, in the quiet repetition of small things. Her fingerprints are not on what happens—but how it happens. When. Where. To whom.
Her presence reveals itself in delays, in déjà vu, in the song that starts the moment you think of someone. In the stranger who knows your name. In the way the wind lifts a receipt at just the right time to reveal a number you keep seeing.
There is no proof in the ordinary sense. There is only the echo of alignment. The Pattern bends, slightly, in your direction—and for a moment, you are seen.
Most miss it. That’s the point. Her presence is not for those who demand evidence. It’s for those who notice the flicker. It’s not a sign. It’s not a message. It’s not a miracle.
It’s a shift. A shimmer. A soft yes beneath the surface of things.