The Wistful Voyage
The first thing to go was the left thumb. It did not fall off; it simply ceased to be there, one Tuesday morning when Elias Thorne reached for his coffee mug and found only the cold, blue-tinged air where the flesh should have been. He stared at the smooth, raw stump, a pink island in a sea of pale skin, and felt a strange, vibrating hum in the rest of his hand. It was not pain. It was absence....
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