The Palm Reader's Prophecy

The rain was coming down in sheets when David finally found the small shop tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. Madame Zora's Parlor read the faded sign, and he shook the water from his umbrella before stepping inside.

"You're late," she said, not looking up from her sudoku.

"Work ran long." Every day felt the same since Sarah left—wake, coffee, the office where he moved spreadsheets like a corporate **zombie**, home to an empty apartment, repeat. "I need to know if I'll ever feel normal again."

Madame Zora sighed and gestured to the velvet chair. He sat, extending his right **palm**. Her fingers traced the lines, warm and dry against his skin.

"Your heart line is broken," she said. "Your head line, blurred. You're asking questions even the **sphinx** couldn't answer." She looked up then, eyes the color of storm clouds. "The future isn't written, David. It's lived."

"That's not helpful."

"No?" She reached under the table and slid a takeout container toward him. "My granddaughter's a chef. She made this—spanakopita. Fresh **spinach**, feta, dill. Eat."

The flaky pastry dissolved on his tongue, the spinach earthy and bright. It tasted like Sunday mornings, like the kitchen they'd painted yellow together, like everything he'd been too numb to notice.

"You've been starving yourself," Madame Zora said softly. "Not food. Life."

Outside, **lightning** fractured the sky, illuminating dust motes dancing in the sudden brightness. In that flash, he saw his reflection in the mirror behind her—hollow-cheeked, eyes dead.

"What do I do?" he whispered.

"You start here," she said, patting his hand. "You finish the spinach. You go home and water the plants you've been neglecting. You call your mother tomorrow. Small things. The future isn't some grand revelation. It's just... what happens next."

David stepped back into the storm, but he didn't run for shelter this time. He stood on the sidewalk, rain plastering his hair to his skull, and for the first time in months, he felt the cold on his skin. He felt something.

The spinach settled warm in his stomach. The lightning flashed again, and he didn't look away.