The Wistful Show
The door closed with a sound like a bone snapping. Marcus stood in the hallway. He held the glove. It was leather. It was brown. It was worn. The fingertips were rubbed thin. The palm was soft. He had worn it for twenty years. He had worn it every day. He was a glove maker. He was old. His hands were stiff. His eyes were dry. He looked at the glove in his hand. It was his left hand. The glove...
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