Citrus Hope

The room was dark and smelled faintly of truth, the tired earthy scent of realization with a hint of citrus hope.

He wiped his nose.

The psychic smiled, grabbed his thin fingers, and greedily traced the line across his palm.

“You have a long life line, my dear,” she said in a cheery voice, as if this information would suddenly brighten up his day.

A rain cloud must have opened up over his head, for he simply grimaced, wiped his nose again, and said, “Thank you.”

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