The Palm Reader's Warning

The office betting pool had reached three thousand dollars. Not that anyone would admit to participating. HR would have a field day. But in the jagged fluorescent light of the breakroom, everyone placed their silent wagers on when Marcus would finally crack.

Marcus stared at his computer screen, feeling the familiar heavy-limbed exhaustion that had become his default state. He was a zombie in a button-down, moving through meetings and emails on autopilot, his real self somewhere else entirely.

"You've got spinach in your teeth," Elena said, sliding into the chair beside him. She was the only person who still spoke to him like he was alive.

He wiped his mouth. "All better?"

"Marcus." Her voice softened. "The Palm Lady is back in the conference room. Third floor. Corporate brought her in for 'team wellness.'"

He laughed, dry and humorless. "Right. Wellness." Like a cafeteria salad bar with wilted spinach fixed burnout.

"Just go. She told me I'd meet someone." Elena touched his arm. "Maybe you need to hear what she has to say."

The palm reader sat behind a folding table, surrounded by lava lamps and crystals. She took Marcus's hand, her fingers tracing the lines on his palm with unexpected gentleness.

"You're not dead yet," she said, as if reading the headline of a newspaper he hadn't written yet.

"Could've fooled me."

"That's why you're tired. You're carrying a future that doesn't fit anymore." She pressed a small smooth stone into his hand. "The pool isn't empty. You're just swimming in the wrong one."

He walked back to his desk, the stone heavy in his pocket. The betting pool would continue without him. The zombie motions, the exhausted compliance, the slow erosion of everything he'd once cared about—none of it was inevitable.

Marcus opened his email. Typed his resignation letter before fear could talk him out of it. Hit send.

For the first time in three years, he felt something like hope begin to stir beneath the surface of his skin.