Hands full of blessings, a heart brimming with grace. You’ve always found that your place in the world is that of a helper, a hero, a saviour. Yes, always, because your kind demeanour was accompanied by acts of wonder from a tender age. People would approach you in your cradle to find your touch and your tiny palms would gently buzz when coming into contact with their body, and release the soft, warm comfort of feathers gently caressing the skin. The ailments would release these bodies, and lives would be forever changed… forever… changed… As you look at your grey hands now, hard like stone, you can’t explain why. Weren’t you predestined to be the light of hope? Weren’t you chosen to uplift the heads hanging in despair? Was this all for nothing, was it all a lie? Why are all these poor people now turning just as bleak and rigid as your hands?