Touching Myself (audio Only).m4a -

As the 12-minute file reached its end, the background noise changed. He heard the distant siren of a city he no longer lived in.

"The desk is cold. It’s oak, I think. My knuckles are dry from the winter air. I’m touching the scar on my palm from that summer in Maine—it feels like a ridge of smooth wax."

The audio cut out. Elias looked down at his hands, now older and marked by different winters. He reached out and touched the edge of his desk, the wood grain rough under his fingertips. He felt the ridge of the scar on his palm.