The Palm Reader's Warning

The cat leapt onto Marcus's desk at 3:14 AM, her yellow eyes judging him as his iPhone illuminated another notification from Sheila: *we need to talk about the project tomorrow.* Marcus's palm hovered over the screen, slick with cold sweat. He'd been awake for thirty-seven hours, sustained by coffee and the creeping dread of his boss's morning meetings.

He was a corporate zombie now—had been since the merger last fall. Once, he'd written poetry. Once, he'd touched Elena's face with reverent hands and meant it. Now his palms only touched keyboards and his phone, scrolling through social media at odd hours while Elena slept in their bed, alone.

The cat meowed, demanding attention. Marcus scratched behind her ears, and for a moment, the simple animal pleasure of it nearly broke him.

"You're the only one who sees me," he whispered.

His phone buzzed again. This time, a photo from his mother—her palm lined with lifelines, fortune-teller ink still fresh from her birthday party in Miami. She'd messaged hours ago: *Your line of purpose is growing stronger this year.*

Marcus stared at the image, at the ink tracing his mother's weathered hand. Purpose. He'd forgotten what that word felt like.

The notification from Sheila slid away as he tapped his mother's message instead: *Tell me more.*

Outside their apartment window, Los Angeles burned orange with dawn. Somewhere, his phone held an email draft—two weeks unsent—asking about transfer opportunities at the Portland branch. His palm still hovered over it, uncertain.

But the cat was purring now, and his mother had answered, and for the first time in months, Marcus didn't feel like the walking dead. He felt like someone who might, someday, choose differently.