The Wistful Witness
It began with the hand. "Look," said Thomas. He held his left palm up. The fingers were curled. The skin was grey. "It will not open." Eleanor looked. She did not look at his face. She looked at the hand. It was a good hand. A strong hand. The knuckles were thick. The nails were short. But the joints were locked. The tendons pulled tight like old rope. "It is cold," Eleanor said. "It is not...
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