M stared ahead. His face showed no sadness or anger or fear, but it wasn’t neutral either. It twitched as if unable to decide which gesture was most appropriate, which gesture could possibly communicate whatever mess of emotions were bubbling up as he watched his mother mourn the child she had been grooming him to replace. M kept rubbing the stump on his left hip, the remains of his arm-tail. Magos kept caressing a body that was not there.
