Hello, Across the Silver Line

The hairbrush turned up in the back of the dresser drawer, smelling faintly of lavender and coal dust. It had a silvered back engraved with initials that might once have been crisp but had softened over years of handling—L. A. or perhaps E. L., depending on how the light fell.

When I held it, my fingers fit the curve as if I had been meant to.

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