The name landed inside him with a small, shocking ease—like a chord resolved. Rahatu: not quite his grandmother, not quite memory, not quite radio. It was as if the voice had stepped through a door between years.
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“Who is this?” he said.
The air shifted. Not a gust, but the feeling of pages turning. The alley across the street shimmered, the way a mirage does when you decide, finally, to cross it. The name landed inside him with a small,