The Golden Ritual
The hand left my body before the funeral. Not the skin, not the bone, but the weight of it. The specific, grinding ache in the knuckles that had defined me since childhood. It sat on the kitchen table, severed, still warm. I watched it twitch. A single finger curled inward, a ghost of a gesture I had made a thousand times. To stir the soup. To turn the page. To hold my brother’s face when he...
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