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Weekly Contest #287
She looked just like her. She had almond eyes, midnight-dark, each reflective shine a star in her iris. She had dimples, damp with the remnants of her resolve. Those same double-toned lips bit themselves in fear, stifling a sob. The girl looked about the same age as when he last saw her. But her hands . . . they weren’t right. They weren’t laden with the burn scars that resulted from their childhood antics in her father’s workshop. They were clean sheets, like freshly pressed papyrus. So it wasn’t her. Thank god. Thank god she wasn’t the...
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