Lines Crossed

The palm reader's shop smelled of incense and desperation. Elena sat across from the woman, extending her hand, her palm slick with sweat she couldn't explain.

"You've lost someone," the woman said, tracing the life line with a weathered finger. "Not to death. To choice."

Elena's throat tightened. Three years since Marcus, her oldest friend, had stopped speaking to her. The night she'd chosen her career over his crisis. The night his golden retriever, Buster, had died in Marcus's arms while she was at a networking dinner she couldn't miss.

"There's a weight here," the palm reader continued, pressing into the fleshy mound below Elena's thumb. "Something you're carrying. A dog that won't stop barking in your dreams."

Elena pulled her hand back. "That's not—that's impossible."

"Is it?" The woman's eyes held ancient knowing. "Dogs remember everything, Elena. Even what we try to forget."

That night, Elena dreamt of Buster's last moments. Marcus's voice on the phone: "Can you come over? He's really suffering." Her own response: "I can't, Marcus. Not tonight. This is huge for me."

She woke at 3 AM, her palm burning where the woman had touched it. Marcus would be awake—he always was, insomnia his constant companion since that night.

The call rang four times before he answered.

"Elena?"

"I'm sorry," she said, the words tearing out of her. "About Buster. About everything. I chose wrong."

Silence stretched between them, years of unsaid words pressing against the phone line. Then Marcus's voice, rougher than she remembered.

"Buster waited for you, you know. Until the end. That dog loved you more than he loved himself."

"I know," Elena whispered, tears finally coming. "I know."

"Come over," Marcus said. "I still have his collar. I think—maybe it's time you helped me say goodbye properly."

Elena's palm no longer burned. In its place, something else began to heal.