What poured out was not a cold mirror this time, but a story—long and crooked, full of small kindnesses and hard refusals. It contained the scent of noodles, the way the river laughed when it hit a certain stone, the exact inflection of a child’s lie told to spare a friend’s feelings. It held the archivist's laugh, the technicians' bewilderment, and Duk Luy’s own hands, folded over his device.

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