"Unless…"
The connection was cut. The palm reader's words hung in the dim, incense-thick air of the parlor, a revelation so profound it seemed to steal the very breath from their lungs.
Delia and Eric stared at each other, their hands still resting in the old woman's cool, dry grasp. The idea that one of them had willingly followed the other into death, disrupting the very fabric of fate, was a truth too immense to comprehend.
It was Eric who broke the heavy silence. His voice was tight, his question born from a place of desperate fear. He was already calculating, trying to find a way to protect her, even if it meant sacrificing himself. "If one of us were to die," he interrupted the quiet, his other hand tightening around Delia's, "would the other one live?"
"Eric!" Delia cried, her voice a sharp, pained whisper. She looked at him, her eyes wide with shock and hurt. How could he even think of a future that didn't include them both?
