You wake alone, as always. The room is cold. It is the same room you have woken in for nineteen years, and it smells of you — of sweat and steel and the faint, patient sweetness of temple incense that has soaked into the plaster. You sit up. You look at your hands.
The right one is worse today. The edge of the palm, the pad beneath the little finger: gone to grey. Not dead. Grey, like...
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