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He had no watch on his wrist. The watch on the root lay where he had placed it, ticking with all the patience of recovered time. Around him, people moved in clothes the town had not seen for decades. A boy with a haircut like a faded comet ran past him, a shoeshine polishing the air. The willow's branches were younger, leaves glossy and stubborn.

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Thomas went home—not with the swagger of repentance but the quieter gait of a man accepting an overdue appointment. The town watched a little, because towns do. The woman—whose name was Lila, though introductions had been unnecessary—met Thomas at her brother’s door. There were awkward words and longer ones, and then a silence that felt like two spools of string finding each other after being knotted wrongly for a while. He had no watch on his wrist

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