Palm Readings for the Dead

Marcus had become a corporate zombie somewhere between his third divorce and forty-second birthday. The transformation was gradual—the hollowing out of his spirit, the graying of his once-vibrant hair, the deadening of eyes that had once sparkled with ambition. Now he was just another asset, another warm body occupying space at Oceanic Industries, his soul extracted like the valuable minerals his company mined in developing nations.

He'd come to Bali on assignment—corporate espionage, spying on a competitor's renewable energy project. His fedora lay on the beach towel beside him, a ridiculous affectation he'd adopted after watching too many classic films. The hat made him feel like something more than what he'd become: a middle-aged man collecting a paycheck for betraying people he'd never meet.

"You look like someone who's forgotten how to live," a woman said, dropping onto the sand beside him.

She was maybe thirty, with crystal-blue eyes and skin weathered by sun and wind. A palm reader, judging by the small table she'd set up further down the beach.

Marcus almost laughed. "You have no idea."

"Give me your hand," she said. "I don't charge people who are already dead inside."

He hesitated, then extended his palm. She traced the lines with calloused fingers, her touch sending unexpected shivers through his numb body. The salty air filled his nostrils. Waves crashed rhythmically against the shore. For the first time in years, he felt something like presence.

"You're a spy," she said, not accusingly. "You trade secrets for money, and you tell yourself it's just business. But somewhere along the way, you started selling pieces of yourself too. Now you're wondering what's left to sell."

Marcus pulled his hand back, heart pounding. "Who are you?"

"Someone who was like you once." She stood, dusting sand from her flowing skirt. "The difference is, I woke up before it was too late."

She walked away without another word, leaving Marcus with his hat and his secrets and the sudden, terrifying realization that he wanted—needed—to remember what it felt like to be alive again. Even if it meant betraying everything he'd become.