Chapter 34: The Language of Hands

Inside, the warmth of the house greeted us, a soft contrast to the crisp air outside. The scent of wood and old books filled the space, wrapping around us like an unspoken welcome.

You led me toward the couch, your fingers never leaving mine, as if letting go wasn't an option. We sat close, the dim glow of the lanterns casting long shadows against the walls.

I watched as you reached for a blank canvas on the table, your fingers skimming over its surface, lost in thought. Then, without a word, you picked up a piece of charcoal and turned to me.

"Give me your hand," you whispered.

I did.

You took it carefully, placing my palm flat against the canvas. Then, with slow, deliberate strokes, you traced along the edges, capturing every curve, every line. The charcoal smudged slightly, leaving traces on your fingers, but you didn't seem to mind.

As you worked, I studied your brow furrowed in quiet concentration, your lips parted slightly, the way you let yourself become lost in the act of creation.

Finally, you pulled back, tilting your head as you examined the piece. "It's not perfect," you murmured.

I glanced at it, at the outline of my hand, the small details you'd added the faint suggestion of movement, the way the lines softened as if capturing something more than just shape.

"It doesn't have to be," I said, my voice low. "It just has to be real."

You looked up at me then, and for a moment, neither of us moved. Then, slowly, you lifted your own hand and placed it over the drawing, aligning your fingers with mine.

"They fit," you whispered.

I reached out, gently wiping a streak of charcoal from your cheek. "They always have."

And as the lanterns flickered and the night deepened around us, I knew some things didn't need to be said.

They were simply felt.