The Wistful Letter
The hand you are looking at now is not the hand you were born with, and the realization does not come all at once but in a slow, cold trickle that seeps into the joints of your knuckles until the bones themselves seem to hum with a frequency that is not quite yours. You are standing in the center of the Grand Hall, a space so vast and high-ceilinged that the light filtering through the stained...
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