The Bestowing

The old woman sits, stooped and wizened on a small wooden stool at the front door of her cottage.  The skin at her throat sags and droops, as if two sizes too big for her.  Her gnarled fingers trace shapes in the air and her lips move in their silent dance, forming words that will never be spoken.  She beckons to me, chuckling knowingly, and my feet hasten to her command.

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