The Wistful Grid
The hand was gone. Margaret noticed the absence before she saw the void. It was a Tuesday. The office smelled of stale coffee and toner. Her left hand sat on the desk. It was pale. It was still. It was not there. She looked at the right hand. It was typing. *Clack. Clack. Clack.* "Margaret?" She did not turn. She kept typing. The keys were warm. "Margaret, you are staring at the wall." It was...
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