IN MEMORY OF: THE PAGE OF PENTACLES

Beloved card. Died of exhaustion, then of irrelevance. Taken into custody by the District Court of Practical Realities.

The Page of Pentacles, age indeterminate but always young, passed quietly this week in a studio apartment with no natural light. The cause was a warrant issued for unpaid internship labor — a charge they never saw coming, because they were too busy looking down at the seed they were trying to grow.

They are survived by their unopened Roth IRA, a 401(k) they keep meaning to set up, and a coffee subscription that auto-renews every month. They are predeceased by their sense of irony, which died when they first said “it’s a great opportunity for exposure” without laughing.

The Page of Pentacles lived the way all Pages do: with their hands in the dirt and their eyes on the ground. They were the one who showed up early, who took meticulous notes, who asked “and what else can I do?” They believed that if they just learned enough, worked hard enough, kept their head down long enough, the ground would eventually give back. That the seed they were watering with their own sleep, their own weekends, their own belief in a fair system would one day sprout into a career, a salary, a life.

They never asked about love. That was the thing. While other cards in the deck were busy turning over for romance, for passion, for the kind of risk that makes your chest tight — the Page of Pentacles was at their desk. They were the one who didn’t leave at 5. They were the one who said “I’ll figure it out” when the unpaid internship was extended another three months. They were the one who believed that if they just held the pentacle steady enough, long enough, with enough devotion, it would eventually become theirs.

It never did.

The warrant arrived on a Tuesday. The charge: unpaid labor. The court: Practical Realities, Division of Fair Exchange. The penalty: the Page of Pentacles would be stripped of their most treasured possession — the belief that hard work is always rewarded. The evidence presented was a three-year trail of “learning opportunities,” of “building your portfolio,” of “we can’t pay you but we can offer mentorship.” The jury, composed of every card who had ever traded their time for promises, deliberated for approximately three seconds.

The Page of Pentacles is survived by a LinkedIn profile that reads “Open to Work” and has been for fourteen months. They are survived by a resume that lists six unpaid roles and one compensated gig that paid in “industry exposure.” They are survived by a Google Calendar that still has their internship reminders, because no one ever taught them how to delete a past obligation.

They are predeceased by the Tarot card that used to hold them — the one that promised diligence, discipline, and patience would yield gold. That card was found facedown in a drawer, corners bent, meaning faded.

What passed quietly while they were busy asking about love was this: the quiet certainty that the world is fair. The belief that if you do everything right, you will be taken care of. The faith that “entry-level” still means something, that “internship” still leads somewhere, that “exposure” is a currency that can eventually be exchanged for rent.

The Page of Pentacles never asked for love. They asked for a job. They asked for a chance. They asked to be seen as someone worth investing in. And the world, in its infinite wisdom, gave them a warrant.

The funeral will be held in the break room of a WeWork no one remembers booking. The service will be officiated by the Knight of Wands, who will say something about taking risks and burning out fast. The eulogy will be delivered by the Queen of Pentacles, who will remind everyone that abundance is not the same as worth — but no one will hear her over the sound of their own exhaustion.

In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you consider paying your interns. The Page of Pentacles would have wanted that. They would have wanted you to know that a pentacle is not a promise. That a seed is not a guarantee. That sometimes the ground doesn’t give back — it just takes.

The Page of Pentacles is gone now. But their ghost is still in the corner, taking notes, nodding along, asking what else they can do.

Do not let them.