Chapter 61 · for subscribers
Nineteen years of copybooks in a piano stool, bottom one first, and the bottom one was not Pell's. It was a boy's hand, cramped and left-leaning, learning to write my letters the year I turned nineteen. He did not steal my hand on a hospital stair. He practised it in this parlour, on this stool, for as long as it takes to raise a child.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.