“Well, first you’ve gotta get it, bro,” Old Ajralan replies. “Like, they’ve gotta serve you, first.”
Fassn nods in the darkness.
“But we can practice,” says Old Ajralan. “Put your, like, fingertips against the wall.”
Fassn does so. Where once was only the absence of space: a dark wall, a non-place, built only to deny and conceal, is now something altogether different. The ridged skin of Fassn’s fingertips brush against the wall’s rough texture. He feels each little bump, rise, and fall of the stone. He spreads his hand wide so more of his flesh can touch it. The cold stone’s worn surface sends a shock through Fassn. Overwhelmed, he yanks his hand away.
“Pretty sweet, right?” asks Old Ajralan.