The Distant Whispers
The hand trembled. It was a small, specific tremor, like a leaf caught in a draft. Elias held his right hand out before him, fingers splayed, watching the muscles twitch. The skin was pale, translucent, mapped with blue veins that looked like cracks in old ice. He had worn this hand for thirty years. It had shaken hands with judges. It had signed treaties. It had held a glass of brandy while he...
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