Kutipan
cut short by the sight of my own hands. They’re bony, ugly. A stranger’s hands. I don’t recognise them at all.
Obeying the voice, I squeeze my eyes shut but all I can hear is my own panicked wheezing. For the longest time it crushes every other sound, but slowly, ever so slowly, I work a hole in my fear, allowing other noises to break through. Raindrops are tapping the leaves, branches rustling overhead.
they trample it underfoot.
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