A clenched shadowy hand stares at me silently declaring my success.
I've figured it out—I think—though I can't be sure. I have the mental image down and believe it is my hand, but something was still off. The only way I can describe it is an inexplicable feeling of newness. It's as if even though I could clench and relax the hand with reliable consistency the power behind it felt—unpredictable. It was troubling.
I still can only move it slowly and it trembles as if reflecting my own unsureness. I look over to Dennis who is currently grinning to himself as he reads. He'd said something similar. That my formed hand would react to me, not for me, and something about trust. I idly move it more in an attempt to get myself to trust it more.
It's not as if I don't trust it, it's just it feels like moving the hand of a toddler—unreliable. Its movement is more fluid yet still lacking somehow.
"Hey, Dennis."
"Hm?"
