The Wistful Atlas
The left hand was the problem. It had always been the problem. For thirty years, Marguerite had kept it tucked into the folds of her apron, or pressed flat against her waist, or hidden beneath the heavy wool of her shawl. It was a hand that refused to be seen. Not because it was ugly, though the knuckles were swollen and the skin pulled tight like old parchment. It was because it was empty. The...
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