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“You can keep watching,” the man said. “You can let it hand things back to you. But remember: not all things should be taken from where they are.”

The messages didn’t stop altogether. In the margins of the city there were still notes folded and tucked into books, and an old man somewhere still threading his projector. But Ayan learned the currency of his life—what he would spend and what he would lock in the drawer. He kept the mango pit as talisman, but the recipes, the songs, the tilt of a father’s smile—he put them into the living place of people he loved. He discovered that stories, when told aloud and traded among friends and neighbors, grew into something that couldn’t be filched by any machine.