The Pale Protocol
The hands were the first thing to go. Not the fingers, which remained, long and pale, twitching slightly as if expecting to hold a glass of wine or a pen. It was the sense of them. The map of the world that lived in the palms, the texture of the grain, the weight of the coin, the heat of the skin. It had faded over the last six months, like a photograph left in the sun. Arthur Penhaligon sat at...
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