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Maru shoved the paper into his pocket. Outside, the city had the same iron smell and neon hum as before, but the clock tower was not where he remembered it: its face was a collage of postcards, and its hands were two knitting needles. Far off, a bell rang an impossible count—thirteen, then one.

Maru blinked until images rearranged. When the credits faded, the woman with the photographs handed him a tiny box wrapped in brown paper. Inside, folded like a promise, was a single sentence: FOR WHEN YOU NEED TO FORGET.