Palm Reader at the Ballpark

The **vitamin** bottle on the kitchen counter mocked me each morning—another futile attempt to resurrect my decaying body. Six years sleepwalking through corporate corridors, a **zombie** in pressed khakis, barely tethered to existence.

Marcus dragged me to the **baseball** stadium, his enthusiasm a sharp contrast to my numb detachment. While he cheered, I slumped in the plastic seat, rehearsing my resignation speech in a mind that had forgotten how to feel.

"Your **palm** tells me you're waiting for something," a woman's voice penetrated my fog.

She sat beside me, eyes lined with years of reading desperate strangers. I extended my hand, surprised by my own willingness.

She traced the lifeline with practiced fingers, then grabbed my wrist urgently. "You're carrying something you need to **bear** witness to."

The moment her fingers touched my skin, something cracked open. Years of suppressed potential surged through me—the version who believed he could transform the world, now trapped behind his glass-walled office.

I returned home to that vitamin bottle and swept it into the trash. The resignation letter could wait. First, I had a life to resurrect.