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The Deceitful Hand

"You love her?"

His voice was accusing as she turned to him, blinking in the low afternoon sunlight. A melodious windchime broke the silence, singing as it did in the cool autumn breeze.

"Of course I don't love her!"

"Then how do you explain the letters?"

She looked away again, out between the trees and across the fields, as her mind filled with images of faint yellow parchment. Large, black cursive letters flowed across the page, telling tales of love and passion, little hints of gentle emotion and promises of kindness and caring. She blinked back a tear as she thought of the depth of her own writings.

"The parchment loves her," she said quietly, "and the ink loves her. The pen loves her. Maybe even my own deceitful hand loves her. But I ... I do not love her."

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