He read hands for thirty years and never read his own. The trade says you cannot read yourself accurately.
At fifty-six he looked.
There is a break in the middle of the life line, two or three millimetres, the two ends offset.
He noted the position: forty-one millimetres up from the wrist crease.
Six months later he measured again. Thirty-eight.
So he started photographing it. First of every month, left hand flat, desk lamp raking across it, phone on a tripod at the same distance.
Twelve photographs. The break moved from forty-one to twenty-nine, a millimetre and a bit a month, evenly.
He worked out when it would reach the wrist crease. Measured with a ruler, counted back on a calendar, did it twice.
It is not travelling toward the fingers. It is travelling toward the wrist. Toward where the line begins.
He dug out the photographs from his childhood. There is one at five years old, the day they set out objects for him to choose from, his hand flat on a red cloth, very clear.
There is no life line on it. The palm is clean. There are two.