The Palm Reader's Promise

Evelyn pressed her palm against the cool glass of the retirement home window, watching the autumn leaves dance across the empty swimming pool below. At eighty-two, she still remembered the day her mother first read her palm lines — 'a long life line,' her mother had said, 'and a love line that crosses it twice.'

The first crossing had been Thomas, her childhood friend who'd turned into something more at seventeen, standing waist-deep in the community pool where they'd both worked summer jobs. 'You're always running from something, Evie,' he'd said, splashing water at her. 'Someday you'll run toward something instead.'

She had run toward him, eventually. They'd built a life together — five decades of marriage, three children, seven grandchildren. Thomas had been gone three years now, and Evelyn's palm still felt empty without his to hold.

The door chimed. Sarah, her oldest friend since nursing school, wheeled herself in, oxygen tank clicking softly. 'Still staring at that drained pool?' Sarah teased. 'Remember when we tried running around it after our night shift? We were twenty-two and thought we were immortal.'

Evelyn smiled, the familiar ache in her chest warmed by affection. 'We were running on pure coffee and optimism.' She joined Sarah by the window, their palms almost touching the glass together. 'Thomas said I'd find something to run toward.' She paused, watching her granddaughter emerge from the building, a toddler on her hip. 'I suppose I have.'