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Eleanor’s hands were no longer steady. They trembled—fine, map-like tremors that had once made her a renowned micro-surgeon, but now made her afraid of holding a coffee cup. After the diagnosis (essential tremor, progressive), she had sold her clinic, given away her suits, and retreated to the dusty attic of her late grandmother’s house.

She smiled. “I’ll need a lot of newspaper.”

She mixed glue and water for a final varnish. As it dried clear, she held the mask to the window. Sunlight poured through its hollow eyes.

Three parts water, one part flour. Whisk until it coats a finger. She dipped a strip. It sagged, heavy with possibility. She laid it across the balloon. Then another. And another.