Resurrection Sunday

The fedora sat on the passenger seat like a judgmental witness to my midlife crisis. I'd bought it yesterday, thinking a new accessory might transform me from the zombie I'd become—divorced, forty-five, sleepwalking through spreadsheets at the consulting firm where passion went to die.

Sunday morning padel lessons with Chloe were the only thing that made me feel alive anymore. She was twenty-eight, vibrant, taught with infectious enthusiasm, and I was her oldest student by two decades. We'd never crossed lines, but sometimes during drills, when her laughter filled the court and the sun caught the copper highlights in her hair, I'd catch myself wondering if this was what feeling human again felt like.

"Your forehand's improving, Marcus," she called out, demonstrating the perfect swing. I watched her, then adjusted my hat against the glare.

After the lesson, I sat alone at the corner café, picking at a spinach and feta omelette I'd ordered because it seemed like something a renewed version of myself would eat. The spinach reminded me of Sunday mornings years ago—before the divorce, before the zombie years—when Elena would make elaborate brunches and we'd pretend our marriage wasn't hollowing out from the inside.

My phone buzzed. Elena. *Palm reading with Luna tomorrow. You should come. Maybe you'll finally believe some things are written in the stars.*

Luna, our daughter, had developed this sudden obsession with mysticism. She claimed she'd had a vision about her parents' reconciliation. I'd humored her, but palm readings weren't exactly my demographic.

Yet something about the fedora, the padel lessons, the spinach—it all felt like reconstruction. Like building a person from scratch.

I texted back: *What time?*

The phone responded instantly. *Noon. Don't wear the hat. She says she needs to see your eyes.*

I laughed. Luna always did see too much. The zombie would have to wait—maybe resurrection was possible after all.