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One afternoon a young woman arrived carrying a faded sari and a photograph clipped to a card. She looked like the child in some of the older files, older now, with a small silver streak at her temple. Her name was Meera. She had a voice that trembled nicely between fear and relief. "I think—" she began, then stopped. "My mother spoke about Savita like she was a lighthouse. She said there was a house where broken things found light."

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