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But you will search for every beginning—and find none." "Then I'll come back, if something is missing." "Something is always missing," she whispered, disintegrating in the light. The way back was shorter than the way there. In the village, the baker's wife stood by the well, flour in her hair, water in sight. "You were gone," she said. "Are you getting our morning?" "I'll get what I can carry," Anar answered, "and leave the rest by the tower." In the night, the bell rang once, soft as breathing. And in his dream, Anar again searched for the beginning of a path. He didn't find it, but he walked.