The Golden Echoes
My hands trembled. They always did when the wind shifted. I looked at them, curled against my chest like dead leaves. They were mine. They had always been mine. But lately, they felt borrowed. A temporary loan from the body I inhabited. Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed. She was reading a novel. The pages turned with a soft, dry whisper. She did not look up. "Peter is coming," she said. I...
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