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“How, since the loss, Wren looked at her hands first thing every morning and pretended they were her mother's hands—hands that never left her, hands that lived on in the foggy transition between sleeping and waking.” — Emily Habeck
How, since the loss, Wren looked at her hands first thing every morning and pretended they were her mother's hands—hands that never left her, hands that lived on in the foggy transition between sleeping and waking.