"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."
"I’m recording this because I’m starting to forget what I feel like," a voice whispered. It was his own voice, but younger—sharper. touching myself (audio only).m4a
The file was buried in a folder labeled Unsorted_2024 . It had no thumbnail, just the generic grey icon of a voice memo. Elias clicked it, expecting a forgotten grocery list or a half-mumbled melody. Instead, the speakers crackled with the sound of static and a shallow, rhythmic breath. "The desk is cold
"I'm okay," the voice on the recording said, softer now. "I'm here. I'm solid." I’m touching the scar on my palm from
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.