The Distant Summer
The left hand was a tool. It was a mechanism of leverage and grip, calibrated by years of precise, repetitive motion. Elias kept it in a black leather glove, not for warmth, but for discretion. The glove concealed the tremor. It hid the fact that the fingers were stained, not with ink or oil, but with a residue that no amount of industrial degreaser could fully lift. In the sterile, white-tiled...
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