The red-gold lines of her palm curve into a knotted clump of scars and stardust. They shimmer like tiny cities against her sunken flesh-- a periapt against the dark smoky ghosts sifting from her eyes. They rise, and each curse stains like fingerprints on her urn.
Hands of a Dying Star
The red-gold lines of her palm curve into a knotted clump of scars and stardust. They shimmer like tiny cities against her sunken flesh-- a periapt against the dark smoky ghosts sifting from her eyes. They rise, and each curse stains like fingerprints on her urn.