The hand was missing.

It had been there the night before. A left hand, pale and stiff, resting in the iron bucket by the hearth. Now the bucket was empty. Only a smell remained. Sweet. Like rotting peaches. Or blood.

Thomas sat on the floor. His back was against the cold stone. He stared at the empty bucket. The house was old. The beams groaned under the weight of the snow outside. It was the winter of the famine. The village was quiet. The dead were many. The living were fewer.

"Thomas?"

He did not look up.

"Thomas, look at me."

Eleanor stood in the doorway. She wore a wool shawl, gray and thin. Her face was hollow. Her eyes were dark. She held a candle. The flame shook.

"I am here," Thomas said. His voice was rough. Like gravel.

"What is that smell?"

"Rot," he said.

"Is it the pig?"

"No."

"Is it the cellar?"

"No."

She stepped closer. The candlelight caught the dust motes dancing in the air. She looked at the bucket. She looked at Thomas. She looked at the bucket again.

"Where is it?" she asked.

"Where is what?"

"The hand."

Thomas felt a cold spike in his chest. Not fear. Something heavier. Shame. He had known it was gone when he woke. He had known it before he opened his eyes. The absence had a shape. A weight. He had carried it all morning.

"It is gone," he said.

"Who took it?"

"No one."

"Thomas. People do not take hands."

"Sometimes they do."

She sat down across from him. The candle made shadows jump on the walls. The shadows looked like hands. Long. Clawing.

"We have no food," she said. "We have no wood. We have no warmth."

"I know."

"Are you hungry?"

"Always."

"Then why do you sit here?"

"I am waiting."

"For what?"

"For the truth."

Eleanor laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves scraping on stone.

"Truth?" she said. "We have no truth. We have hunger. We have cold. We have each other."

She reached out. She touched his cheek. Her fingers were cold. They were rough. They smelled of ash.

"You look at it," she said. "You look at the empty bucket. You look at the space where the hand was. You are afraid of the space."

"I am afraid of the hand," Thomas said.

"It is not a hand," she said. "It is a memory."

"It is flesh."

"It is your guilt," she said.

Thomas pulled away. He stood up. His legs were weak. He walked to the window. The glass was thick. It was dirty. Outside, the snow fell. Silent. Endless.

"The village is coming," he said.

"Let them come."

"They will bring the magistrate."

"Let him come."

"He will take you."

"He will take me."

Thomas turned back to her. The candle was low. The wick popped. Sparks flew.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"Why did you let it happen?"

"Let what happen?"

"The taking."

Eleanor closed her eyes. She leaned her head back against the doorframe.

"I did not let it happen," she said. "I watched it happen."

"Watching is not letting."

"In this house, it is the same thing."

Thomas looked at his own hands. They were clean. They were strong. They were his. He flexed them. They obeyed.

"I am the prisoner," he said.

"You are the jailer," she said.

"I am both."

She opened her eyes. They were wet. But she did not cry.

"Tell me," she said. "Tell me what you see."

"I see nothing."

"Look deeper."

"I see the bucket."

"Look deeper."

"I see the dark."

"Look deeper."

Thomas closed his eyes. The darkness pressed against his lids. He felt the weight of the house. The weight of the snow. The weight of the years. He felt the hand. It was not in the bucket. It was in his pocket.

He reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed against something soft. Wet. He pulled it out.

It was a glove.

A leather glove. Red. It was wet. It was heavy.

He looked at Eleanor. She was watching him. Her face was still. Her eyes were wide.

"It is not a hand," he whispered.

"No," she said.

"It is a glove."

"Yes."

He held the glove up. The leather was slick. It reflected the candlelight. It looked like skin. It looked like a hand.

"I thought it was a hand," he said.

"You are a man who fears the shape of his own sin," she said. "You gave it a form. You gave it a weight. You put it in the bucket so you could leave it there. So you could forget."

Thomas stared at the glove. The red leather pulsed in the dim light. It was not alive. It was not dead. It was only leather. But it felt like a heart.

"I did not take it," he said.

"No," Eleanor said. "You hid it."

"From whom?"

"From yourself."

Thomas sat down. The glove lay in his lap. He did not pick it up. He did not throw it away. He left it there. It was a dead thing. But it was a heavy thing.

"The magistrate will come," Thomas said.

"Yes."

"He will see the glove."

"Yes."

"He will know."

"He will know."

Thomas looked at the empty bucket. The smell was gone. Or perhaps he had stopped smelling it. The air was cold. It was clean.

"I am hungry," Thomas said.

"I know," Eleanor said.

"I am cold."

"I know."

"I am alone."

"No," she said. "You are not alone. You are with the glove. You are with the bucket. You are with the dark. You are with me."

She stood up. She walked to the bucket. She picked up a stone. She threw it in. It clattered against the metal. The sound echoed in the small room.

"Throw it," she said.

"Throw what?"

"The glove."

Thomas looked at the glove. It lay in his lap. It was red. It was wet. It was his.

"I cannot," he said.

"Then keep it."

He kept it.

The wind howled outside. The beams creaked. The candle went out. The room was dark. The cold crept in. It settled on their shoulders. It settled on their bones.

Thomas did not move. He sat in the dark. He felt the glove in his lap. It was warm. It was wet. It was there.

He understood then. The hand was not missing. It was not gone. It was never there to begin with. It was the shape of his fear. The shape of his guilt. He had built it out of nothing. He had given it flesh. He had given it a place. And now he had to live with the place.

The door opened.

Light flooded in.

The magistrate stood in the doorway. He was tall. He was thin. He wore a coat of black wool. His face was pale. His eyes were sharp.

He looked at Thomas. He looked at Eleanor. He looked at the floor.

He saw the glove.

It lay in Thomas’s lap. Red. Wet. Glowing in the light.

The magistrate did not speak. He did not ask. He simply looked.

Thomas looked up. He met the magistrate’s eyes. He did not hide the glove. He did not cover it. He held it out.

It was a small thing. A piece of leather. But it was the whole truth.

The magistrate stepped inside. He closed the door. The wind died. The silence was total.

"Sit down," the magistrate said.

Thomas sat. Eleanor sat.

The magistrate looked at the glove. He reached out. He did not touch it. He hovered his hand over it. Then he pulled back.

"You have a choice," the magistrate said.

"I have no choice," Thomas said.

"You always have a choice. You can keep the glove. You can throw it away. You can burn it. You can bury it. But you cannot forget it."

Thomas looked at the glove. It was still. It was quiet. It was his.

"I will keep it," Thomas said.

The magistrate nodded. He turned to Eleanor.

"And you?"

Eleanor looked at the magistrate. She looked at Thomas. She looked at the glove.

"I will watch," she said.

The magistrate smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"Then we are done," he said.

He turned. He walked out. The door opened. The wind rushed in. The snow fell.

The door closed.

Thomas sat in the dark. The glove was in his lap. It was heavy. It was warm.

Eleanor sat beside him. She did not speak. She did not move.

They sat.

The snow fell.

The house stood.

The glove waited.