What the Palm Reader Forgot

The neon sign buzzed above her: MADAME ZORA'S PALM PARLOR. Maya stepped inside, escaping the Las Vegas heat that had made her hair frizz and her linen dress cling to her skin. The air conditioning smelled of incense and desperation.

"You've come far," the woman said, not looking up. Her face was a roadmap of deep wrinkles, her eyes sharp and knowing. She took Maya's hand, her fingers tracing the lines on her palm with practiced precision.

"You're running from something. Or someone."

Maya thought of Liam. Of the way his hair had been falling out for months—chemo, the doctors said, though he refused treatment. Of how he'd pushed her away with the cunning of a fox protecting its territory, snapping at her kindness, barricading himself in their bedroom.

"He doesn't want me to see him die," Maya said, her voice cracking.

"Men." Madame Zora shook her head. "They think suffering is a solo sport. Like they're the sphinx guarding some great secret, when really they're just scared."

Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle. The water caught the streetlamp, shimmering like the tears Maya hadn't allowed herself to shed in weeks.

"Go back to him," the palm reader said suddenly. "Whatever riddle he thinks he's protecting, it's not worth this. Not worth you standing in a strange city while he—" She didn't finish. She didn't have to.

Maya's phone buzzed. Liam's sister: He's asking for you.

She left money on the table. The desert air hit her like a wall, but she didn't feel it anymore. All she felt was the weight of the ticket in her pocket and the terrible, beautiful certainty that some journeys end exactly where they began—not in triumph, but in the quiet, ordinary work of loving someone through the worst parts of being human.