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“Why would someone leave me a number?” Mara asked to the few who gathered as the elevator sighed open. They were a small crowd: Nu, a wiry mechanic with grease in her hair; Tomas, who patched old circuitboards like people mend wounds; and an elderly woman they called Ada, who kept records and sang to the machines when they went quiet.

She chose.

Mara remembered the stolen nights, the cog on Jace’s bedside, the wild hope that had kept him alive. She thought of the Foundry: their fingers forever blackened by work, but their eyes steady and kind. She thought of the oak by the river that had passed the paper into her hands. The city had its own ways of protecting things — of burying keys where roots could keep secrets. fc21602707

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