The Golden Master
The left hand was gone. Not severed, not lost to disease, but simply absent, as if the universe had blinked and decided that Eleanor’s fingers on that side were redundant. She sat in the kitchen of their modernist glass house in the Pacific Northwest, the rain hammering against the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the dense, dark forest into a smear of charcoal and emerald. Her right hand...
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