He stopped momentarily in his work, expression softening. "You were a sculptor." He was again overcome with a curiosity. What happened to her hands? Why had someone seen fit to do such a thing? But he wouldn't pry. He respected her reluctance to share. It was, after all, most likely painful to recount.

"What if I told you I may be able to return some semblance of that life to you?" His tone was alien to Dorian: pensive. He returned to his work while he awaited her response.