Oliver refused to break eye contact with the mangled cookie in the middle of the table. He was furious to the point of tears, but he also did not cry, and he refused to let that change now.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” said the waitress with a purple streak in her hair. There was a hint of nervousness in her voice. How long had she been there? How long had he been silent, staring?

I told you I didn’t want a cookie!

It echoed loud within him like the toll of a church bell in a grand cathedral.

“No, thank you,” is what he eventually went with, not bothering to look up or even attempt a smile.

The waitress was silent for long enough that Oliver thought she might have left, although he didn’t dare check.

“I’ll be right back with your check,” disproved his theory.

The waitress must’ve watched him a moment longer before actually retreating from his table. Oliver hoped she was concerned he might get violent. She didn’t know what she’d done. How could she?  But she’d done it all the same. Momentary discomfort seemed an appropriate punishment.

Oliver took a deep breath.

It was his fault really, for even risking coming to a Chinese restaurant. For over a decade he’d been able to avoid their allure. Now he regretted it—hating it all for what it was.  He hated the vibrant neon sign, the delicious garlic smell, he even hated the quaint oriental water-color paintings that hung everywhere. He hated the one depicting an elegant swan emerging from the brush the most.

Oliver reached for the bagged cookie, weighing it in his hands.

For most it was an amusing trinket, yet for him it contained an unspeakable truth. A universal, inescapable essence that would follow him until its purpose was fulfilled.

Oliver had suffered through twelve fortune cookies in his life. Twelve accurate predictions. Twelve fates that found him whether he wanted them to or not. He’d survived though, and he had no reason to believe this would be any different.

Before his courage betrayed him, he ripped open the plastic, exposing the cookie with trembling fingers.

With a perfect break, he snapped into the cookie and snatched out the paper within.

Nervous, he read.

Happiness or sadness-it is entirely your choice.

He read it again to be sure.

And then again.

“Your check sir. You can just—are you alright?” said the waitress, having returned to Oliver’s table.

Oliver didn’t know how to explain his happiness. He didn’t know how to describe coherently that he’d gotten his life back, so he just nodded, shaking a few tears free.