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Years went past. Sin and Mamu had a small house with a low porch. They taught the children to listen for the ridge-wind and to record small absences on slips of paper. Sin’s hair went silver at the temples faster than his neighbor’s; his memory remained a patchwork. When he closed his eyes, he could no longer call up every face from his childhood, but he could remember how the story of the village bent when someone reclaimed a name. He could trace the web of exchanges like a map of roots under the soil.