My hands have held many things.
A moth-eaten book, as I sat in a large tent, surrounded by people whose names I can't recall, while an old man pointed out the letters on the pages to me.
The side of a rickety old wagon as we bounced along endless, nameless foreign roads, and I cried for not knowing where I was going, or where I had been.
A stale loaf of bread as I sat beside an ice-covered stream, wondering how and where I'd find my next meal.
The hilt of my knife, plain and worn smooth over the years, as I held it to the caravan driver's throat, while my blood dripped onto his cheek.
Handfuls of Cormac's wiry, grey fur, as he curled beside me on cold nights, covering me with his warmth, and somehow making me feel not quite so utterly alone.
And yet, somehow, I never knew that everything else could fade and grow so dim, in comparison to holding one of the simplest things imaginable.
The hand of another person.
