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Summary
Her hands, too, have grown rough with time. Calloused, aching. She will trace the threads of him, weaving until she can find herself glimpsing at the beginnings of a tapestry. She will tuck his graying hair behind his ear, combing her hand through errant strands. He will turn his cheek, breathe into her palm. He will kiss each joint of her knuckles, kiss her wrist, her arm.
Series
- Part 4 of I pray to god it's the kindest thing