A soft click sounded. The door at the back of the courtyard eased open, revealing a narrow room tiled floor to ceiling with small photographs: doors, windows, rooftops, a hundred corners collected from people who had come before. Each image had a thin strip of paper taped to the edge — a single word, a date, a tiny folded scrap of life. Mei found a spot on the wall and, without thinking, smoothed her receipt against the plaster and wrote the day’s time in the margin.
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