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"It was in my grandfather’s chicken coop," the girl whispered. "He used it to press tobacco. Last week, he died. He told me, 'Take this to the crying man on Asatiani Street.'"

He stared at it for an hour. Then two.

Under the tree, the ash from the manuscript cover began to spiral upward, reforming not into pages, but into a shape. A woman’s shape. Translucent, made of dust and moonlight and the ghost of calligraphy. papillon qartulad

The painted wing shivered. It lifted from the ash. It fluttered once, twice, and flew out the open window into the Tbilisi night, trailing a thread of gold. "It was in my grandfather’s chicken coop," the