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Ravi's first instinct was selfish. He could digitize the clips and stash them on a hard drive, a modern reliquary. But memory, he'd learned, grew stale when locked away. It needed air, fingers, retellings. He reached for his contacts, then stopped.

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"Ravi? Why are you standing there with the window open?" His neighbor's voice — older, skeptical — drifted from the lane. The scene in his hands wavered. Ravi's first instinct was selfish