On his left hand, two missing fingers. Memory is a fiersome thing, a firestorm against the coldest heart. In the interlude where narrative paused, the writer gripped her collar, turned it up against the chill. You want to run away. Babushkas shuffled the street above.
Bells rang on bicycles.
A man halted to light a cigarette, his match falling like a yellow seed to the dank dirt below, where I found myself sweating and touched, as I haven't been touched before.