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Weeks turned. The storefront changed hands: a young woman turned it into a bakery where yeast rose like a new language; the smell of cardamom gave way to warm bread. Sarah watched once, a distance between them of a corner and a street and an afternoon. The new owner waved; Sarah waved back. They were both small islands in a growing shore.

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He walked in with the slow carefulness of a man entering a church. His eyes took in the place as if gauging the cost of lost time. He smiled at her, and that smile telescoped their past into one long corridor of what-ifs. Weeks turned