Lines in the Sand

Maria sat at the card table on Ocean Drive, her **palm** upturned, waiting. The tourist across from her—a sharp-featured woman in her thirties—kept glancing at her watch.

"You're going to meet someone," Maria said, touching the woman's life line. "Soon."

The woman laughed bitterly. "I met someone three months ago. That's why I'm here."

Maria's fingers traced the heart line, curved and fragmented. "He's not what you think."

The woman's smile faded. She pulled her hand back. "How did you—"

"I see things." Maria gestured toward the **pool** behind them, where a cluster of tourists shouted and splashed. "Some people believe in fate. Others believe in coincidence."

"Which do you believe?"

Maria thought about Julian. Last night, drunk and weeping on her balcony, he'd confessed everything. The **cable** that connected their building to the main hub—he'd been splicing into it for months. Stealing internet, yes. But also data. Financial records. Passwords. "Side hustles," he'd called them. Now the FBI was asking questions.

She'd lain beside him for seven years, watched his dark **hair** go gray at the temples, never knowing who he really was.

"I used to believe in forgiveness," Maria said. "Now I believe in consequences."

The tourist stood up, pressing a fifty-dollar bill into Maria's hand. "You're the real thing. I can tell."

Maria watched her walk away toward the ocean, where the waves swallowed the sound of her footsteps. Her phone buzzed—Julian again. She let it ring.

The sun burned overhead. A child screamed from the pool. Maria packed up her table, folding the cloth, sliding the cards into their box. Tomorrow she'd be somewhere else. Another city. Another name. That was the consequence of loving a ghost: you learned how to become one yourself.