"Excuse me, sir. You left this."
Dr. C. feels a sudden disorientation washing over him, trying to focus his eyes on the young woman standing before him. He reaches for the small package in brown paper being offered to him, putting his hands on either side of it.
"Oh, thank you."
The Doctor stares at the package in his hands, not quite remembering where he had left it; the woman's voice echoes in his head: "Your focus then, eh? Ask the newest thing in life. Lonesome blues got me. He was normally unknown in Eurasia on this time to lose track of the petty sovereigns. That whiteness is colour? You're welcome, says he, I understand your heroism, and the screaming wind ceased; there was a materialist, believing in no way drowned by cries of Sellers. He presses the inquiry still further in our own. Has temporarily lost his soul loosening from its grated windows looks on the same voice."
"What?" C. replies, looking up suddenly, his mind restored.
The woman is gone.
Resigned to the strangeness he knows must follow, C. tears the paper from the package -- a severed left hand, frozen and beginning to thaw, inside a black leather glove. Looking closely, the Doctor sees two Greek characters cut into the glove strap, βζ, beta and zeta.