"The arm," Link says. He raises his right hand; wiggles the fingers a little bit. Certainly, it ever used to be that midnight-black colour. Or have fingernails that looked like claws. Or have strange copper rings and bars twisting around it in mysterious patterns.

Though it's a bit telling, perhaps, that he calls it 'the arm'. Not, 'my arm'.

There's still a few benches and chairs that are stick to each other, though. Link raises his arm again, and picks them up with that beam of green light before repeating the process to shake them apart.