One day, after my father’s death, I was in my parents’ house looking through his bookshelves. I thought about powdering the books for fingerprints so I’d have something left. I still think about that sometimes. What difference would it make to have a copy of fingerprints made by fingers that no longer exist? Those fingers were burned, and now they are dust. Seeing my dad’s warm, dead hand had made me look at my own hand and realise that, one day, someone might look at it after I was gone.