A psalm in the palm of your hand // [Helle/Marley]

Hellemine is tired of being cold and hungry. That she’d chosen this life over another, buried deep underground, is forgotten. She could only think thoughts as bitter as the wind: your coat is new, can’t you spare a little coin for a half-dead girl? Your coffee is hot, can’t you spare a sip when you heard my stomach growl?. She folds arm over arm under her threadbare sweater, oblivious to the fact that with no hand outstretched, the strangers passing by have no way to extend their generosity.

Her stomach rumbles.

She could open up her little sign, sit down on the flattened pillow and read their palms. But even more than being cold or hungry, she is tired of being called a witch.

She tries not to look directly at anyone, lest they recognize her. Long blonde curls gather like drifts of snow along the angles of her face. She glances, blinks, ducks her chin.

He is hard to miss.

His smile is easy, his hair is impervious to the cold. And yet. Even without touching his palm, she can feel a piece of him missing. She finds herself skidding over icy cobblestones, following him, not sure which question is greater:

Will you feed me? Or, “you seem like someone who knows how to get what they want,” she says in a rush, flashing a quick smile. “And at the same time, you’re still missing something important?”