“Who are you?” He asked, his unseeing dark eyes staring kindly at
the nothingness which hung over my right shoulder.
“My name’s Anna.” I said, deciding on the most cliché fake
name in the book.
“Where are you from?” I was surprised at the subtle
confidence of his actions. For a blind man, he moved like a crouching tiger,
smooth and graceful. He poured me a mug of tea, and served himself
after I’d taken the first sip. The brew tickled his short beard and bubbled. He
smiled, a handsome expression which set me at ease, much to my surprise.
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