The day after my wife’s funeral, the world felt unbearably empty. The house echoed with silence, and memories clung to every corner like shadows refusing to leave. I wandered the streets, lost in a fog of sorrow, when a small, curious tent caught my eye — a fortuneteller’s stall, nestled incongruously between the modern shops.
Drawn by a strange impulse, I stepped inside. The air was thick with incense and mystery. An elderly woman with piercing eyes greeted me quietly. “You carry a heavy heart,” she said, her voice soft but steady.
I told her of my loss, my grief, my fear of what the future held without her.
She reached for my hand, tracing invisible lines on my palm. Then, with a solemn gaze, she spoke: “Tomorrow will change everything. You will see that the past is not gone, and the future holds more than sorrow.”
I left, bewildered, carrying her words like a fragile ember in the darkness.
The next day, something extraordinary happened. I found an old letter hidden in a book my wife had loved—a letter she had written but never sent, filled with hopes, secrets, and a plea for forgiveness. It was as if she had reached out from beyond, guiding me toward healing.
Her prediction had come true, not in some eerie premonition, but in a moment of grace that pulled me back from despair. The fortuneteller’s words opened a door — a reminder that even in loss, love’s presence lingers, and life’s path can still surprise us.