There had been four laugh lines around her eyes when she was truly happy.

You had kissed both of her temples four times, once for each of them.

Her ring fingers had been longer than her index.

You had traced their lines with your own until you knew them better than anything but her eyes.

Her wrists had been pianist’s wrists.

Of course they had been pianist’s wrists.

The bone had been as white as china, you had seen it as it snapped, as it tore through fabric and skin.

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