Page 61 - DivineSparkRisingFinal

Nicholas Boothman
The Curator.
The voice, smooth, androgynous, seemed to
seep from the walls. Too even. Too perfect. Henry
had spent years dissecting interview footage and
intercepted calls; he could hear when a voice was
stripped of its natural texture, pitch-shifted into
that uncanny space between male and female. The
image was no different: skin tone flattened, edges
sharpened just enough to blur identity, the layered
masking used to protect high-value assets on
camera.
And yet, something in him reacted before his
mind could label it. A tightening in his chest, the
way you turn toward a song you know even when
it’s played in another key. Beneath the filters, there
was a rhythm to the words: deliberate, with a half-
second pause before certain phrases, as if tasting
the next thought before speaking it. He’d heard
that pause before.
Then there was the gesture, barely a flicker, the
Curator’s thumb brushing across the base of the
index finger, once, twice, like an unconscious
metronome.
He told himself it was nothing. Just muscle
memory finding patterns where none existed.
But his pulse kept insisting otherwise.
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