The Golden Farce
The hands were the problem. They had always been the problem. They were small, precise, and trembling. They belonged to Julian, who was nine years old, and they moved with a speed that blurred into a single, continuous vibration. In the center of the long, oak table, the cards lay scattered in a chaotic fan. Red backs. White faces. A blur of motion. Julian watched his own fingers. They did not...
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