You find a lump. Grey tendrils work their way out and into the soft flesh of the planet, the withered arms of the quiet dead banding together for comfort and support, their torsos pressed so firmly and so close they fuse into a single leprous mass.

Hands reach out to passing bodies, grasping ankles, legs, chests. Pale fingers grip tightly over open mouths, noses, pulling them in to be absorbed into the silence. Only arms remain, slowly draining of colour as they wave at passers-by.

And so the world crafts its own disease.