![\"\"](\"https:\/\/readmore.cx\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/12\/tap-here.webp\")
<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n
Victor didn\u2019t touch it.<\/p>\n
Instead, he noticed the machine. Old. Well-used. He recognized the model; his grandmother had owned one like it. He remembered sitting under her table, watching the needle rise and fall while she hummed. The memory struck him with surprising force.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour name?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cClara.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow old are you, Clara?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTen,\u201d she said. After a pause, she added, \u201cAlmost.\u201d<\/p>\n
Victor looked at her bandaged wrist. \u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe needle slipped,\u201d she replied. \u201cIt\u2019s fine.\u201d<\/p>\n
He turned toward the other room. \u201cMay I?\u201d<\/p>\n
She hesitated, then nodded.<\/p>\n
The bedroom was dim. A woman lay beneath thin blankets, her face pale, lips cracked. She stirred weakly when Victor entered.<\/p>\n