Speaker 1: When I think of those first night in my new apartment,
Speaker 1: two floors above the cobbled Market Square, I pictured the
Speaker 1: hush before dawn, the weary old stones held the echo
Speaker 1: of the river, and how in early spring the quiet
Speaker 1: felt so deep he could almost hear time itself settling
Speaker 1: in for the night. After thirty four years in the
Speaker 1: same fluorescent late elementary class room, had finally traded suburban
Speaker 1: noise for this rough red roof, tiles, lamb black shadows,
Speaker 1: and windows that, when you opened them carefully lead in
Speaker 1: the sweet, slow scent of the river winding out toward fields. Laurel,
Speaker 1: my eldest, had worried, this will all be too much,
Speaker 1: too solitary, ma'am, not sol your age, no one to
Speaker 1: fuss over, But that was part of the charm. Retirement
Speaker 1: meant a certain empty space to finally fill on my
Speaker 1: own terms, and this town half Folkhore, half history, with
Speaker 1: its stubbornly painted bridge and little stone arcades, promised exactly that.
Speaker 1: On my fourth Tuesday and apartment, I awoke early before
Speaker 1: even the milt fun rolled through, jolted out of a
Speaker 1: soft dream about stack drawing paper and children's voices. The
Speaker 1: air felt unusually electric. I rose and padded towards the
Speaker 1: front window, and more out of habit and expectation, tugging
Speaker 1: on my red cardigan. The market plas lay shrouded in mist. Then,
Speaker 1: almost as I watched, the air shifted canvas boost bloomed themselves, open,
Speaker 1: colors sharp and improbable in the pale lifeponic's blue stripes
Speaker 1: saffron oxpood Men and women bustled among crates and baskets.
Speaker 1: They wore garments I had seen only in museum photographs,
Speaker 1: pleated skirts and warm felt hats, long aprons, jackets with
Speaker 1: impossibly tiny buttons. Children darted between their legs, trailing ribbons,
Speaker 1: and little wooden animals on wheels. I pressed my pond
Speaker 1: to the glass. Had I missed a town event? Every
Speaker 1: stoll brinned over. There were cold cheeses, dusted and ash,
Speaker 1: and a pastry glistening with unfamiliar dark syrup. A butcher
Speaker 1: away cuts on a hand forged scale. The brass weights
Speaker 1: battered and carefully shined. I saw pottery with patterns echoing
Speaker 1: the arch of the bridge and house tiles, carvings of
Speaker 1: willow leaves and spiral river fish. Coins passed from bias
Speaker 1: to cellars, heavy dull, some with holes at the centers,
Speaker 1: unlike any had seen even on antique stalls. A tended
Speaker 1: corner boasted a hurdy gurdy. The tune twined up and
Speaker 1: over the worn square, oddly formal, the scales turning back
Speaker 1: on themselves with a catch and yawn. Several men knelt
Speaker 1: to stack cloth bound books, stradded with colored straying, the
Speaker 1: script on the covers looping, and her cake. The girl
Speaker 1: with a crown of woven grass handed out folded bits
Speaker 1: of paper when she laughed. It reminded me of may
Speaker 1: Day at the skull children tilting backward with joy. Every
Speaker 1: glance yielded some off kilt, a detailed soul set precisely
Speaker 1: along the seams of the ancient paving. Jaws of pickled
Speaker 1: things I couldn't name, A sudden whiff of woodsmook and honey.
Speaker 1: I pulled on boots, heart quickening. There had been no
Speaker 1: mention of such a market in the town website, our guidebooks.
Speaker 1: Back in my London flat, not even em Lauren, my
Speaker 1: misodical landlord, had dropped so much as a hint. Had
Speaker 1: I missed some obscure tradition? My note book was already open,
Speaker 1: pen trembling slightly. As I reached for the door. Niune
Speaker 1: bell sanded from the river church, clear measured chines floating
Speaker 1: on the air. For only a moment, the market seemed
Speaker 1: to grow brighter, more jubilant. There was a swelling in
Speaker 1: the music, a bright flurry at the cheese stole, sudden
Speaker 1: laughing from the beaker's, And then by the time I
Speaker 1: reached the stairwell, perhaps two minutes. When I hurried down
Speaker 1: and turn onto the plaza stones, there was nothing the
Speaker 1: square I was bears ever, not so much as a
Speaker 1: paper twisting along the garter. Not a single person lingered.
Speaker 1: Even the faint music was gone. I forced myself to
Speaker 1: walk the length of the plaza, checking under benches and
Speaker 1: behind lamp posts. Nothing but a faint warmth in the
Speaker 1: air and a scatter of sunbeams on the stones, as
Speaker 1: though nothing unusual had happened at all. At first, I
Speaker 1: felt only wonder Surely I'd stumbled on too, a meticulously
Speaker 1: preserved addition, a costume market, maybe staged for tourists but
Speaker 1: rarely advertised. Perhaps it was a private society event invitation only,
Speaker 1: or a reenactment run for a film crew. These impossibilities
Speaker 1: thrilled me. It was just strange enough to invite curiosity,
Speaker 1: not anxiety. A puzzle wouldedge, just poking out, waiting for
Speaker 1: the rest of the pieces to fall into place. I
Speaker 1: resolved to be ready next time to learn what I could.
Speaker 1: The rest of that morning, sunlights boiled through the plaza,
Speaker 1: and nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Daily life resumed
Speaker 1: as if the extraordinary bassal had been nothing but a figment.
Speaker 1: For I thought, an inexpert of French unrare vegetie. But
Speaker 1: dreams rarely smell cinnamon or leave your hands tingling with
Speaker 1: the possibility that something you've never studied is standing waiting
Speaker 1: just beyond the edge of explanation astoris astorus asterisk. By
Speaker 1: at at first market day's sunset, I gone some way
Speaker 1: toward fitting myself into the patterns of town life. Retirement
Speaker 1: had swelled up in the hours, but I organized the
Speaker 1: maholdover from years herding children into routines. The mornings, I
Speaker 1: walked to the Riverside Bakery, where Madame Schev would call
Speaker 1: me my braving glaze and hand me a dense sour
Speaker 1: dough with caraway. On alternate days, I picked up eggs
Speaker 1: or soft cheese from the groceries and rudestelors, and sometimes
Speaker 1: took the longer way home by the bridge, watching sunlight
Speaker 1: flare off the water beneath its stubbornly original arches. At
Speaker 1: the little brick Library, i'd struck up conversation with the librarian,
Speaker 1: Madam Palladier. There I led the local history club spring cycle,
Speaker 1: half a dozen retirees, hungry for gossip, disguised as heritage,
Speaker 1: eager to correct my pronunciations or point out minor inaccuracies
Speaker 1: in old to a scripts. My modest apartment two rooms
Speaker 1: plus an alcove with crumbling plaster roses on the ceiling
Speaker 1: became a comfortable perch each week. But club met in
Speaker 1: the bakeriess upstairs jewey box room courses, melting into crumbs
Speaker 1: over dogg eared French mysteries. My landlord, Monsieur Lawrance, was practical, unflappable,
Speaker 1: and used to disappointment to all buildings are always surprising, Madam,
Speaker 1: he'd say, adjusting his wire hoot glasses before heading off
Speaker 1: to chase leaks or replace another window sash. The other tenants,
Speaker 1: except for a pair of sisters on the first floor
Speaker 1: rotated seasonally. The sisters themselves, Colett and Vivienne, were inseparable,
Speaker 1: the sort who finished one another stories with a gesture
Speaker 1: in a sigh. Max, a high school student from the
Speaker 1: North neighborhood, pensured me how to extract voice messages from
Speaker 1: the newerphone, and sometimes ran errands in exchange for biscuits
Speaker 1: and practiced English. There was a social membrane greetings on
Speaker 1: the plaza, small jokes, the exchange of morning news and
Speaker 1: family updates that let you know you belonged, but never
Speaker 1: drowned you in obligation. The town itself moved with the
Speaker 1: rhythm of memory, of preservation. Society devoted to bridge stones,
Speaker 1: clubs occupying the attic rooms above the library, plaques marking
Speaker 1: which dignitaries had dined there. When the church bell sounded
Speaker 1: at noon, a hush always followed, a ripple of reverence
Speaker 1: for the hour, not quite religious, but waited with implication.
Speaker 1: And yet something in the air resisted per knowing I'd
Speaker 1: noticed over tea with Madame Scheve or while sorting museum
Speaker 1: pamphlets that references to market day were common in springtime.
Speaker 1: Chatter will see him at market Day, or the weathers
Speaker 1: never so fair as on the fourth Tuesday. I was
Speaker 1: told these were ordinary craft fairs, simple events, you know,
Speaker 1: a few tables by the fountain, nothing extravagant, the sisters insisted,
Speaker 1: waving away any suggestion of spectacle. M Lawren kept a calendar,
Speaker 1: neat and hand detailed on the building's entry wall. It
Speaker 1: marks Saint's days and council meetings, but not a single
Speaker 1: Tuesday market. The town's blend of pass and present murmured
Speaker 1: with a kind of intent. Doors bore ironwrich designs echoing
Speaker 1: the bridge. No shops saw postcards with lost landmarks depicted
Speaker 1: as if they were still in situ. When I pressed
Speaker 1: for explanations why the north o'cavee resembled a boat hull,
Speaker 1: or whether any of the bakery recipes truly stretched back
Speaker 1: to the ear of the first flood, I was met
Speaker 1: with laughter and stories that circled back on themselves. I
Speaker 1: felt those first weeks a gentle outsiders long, not quite exclusion,
Speaker 1: but a sense that I was following a pattern everyone
Speaker 1: else already understood. However, unconsciously I kept my own company
Speaker 1: well enough, but curious elst he breathed itself into my
Speaker 1: solitary walks in the quiet after book club. Why had
Speaker 1: no one mentioned at market so elaborate, so eerily stitched
Speaker 1: into the town's fabric that even they have seemed to
Speaker 1: have changed. Why did the ground remember nothing by mid day,
Speaker 1: yet surrounded by decesis, comforting repetition of town routines, I
Speaker 1: found my knees to solving into fascination. If it was
Speaker 1: a game, I would play, if it was a secret,
Speaker 1: I would find the scene astuurus faster as faster risque.
Speaker 1: That afternoon I brought it up lightly as a curious
Speaker 1: aside over coffee at the Cafe Doo Via Pont. M
Speaker 1: Lauren had joined me for a hasty bite before seeing
Speaker 1: to the roof, and Haley, my closest friend from the museum,
Speaker 1: had paused at the table to rest her feet. Did
Speaker 1: you see the market this morning, i asked, affecting casualness.
Speaker 1: All those wonderful old costumes, the music. I think they'd
Speaker 1: even had a working hurdy gurdy. No one told me
Speaker 1: the fair stretch, the whole plaza. Halene's face brightened with recognition. Oh,
Speaker 1: the market. I always look for the cheese muchant he
Speaker 1: brings in a war sheep's cheese you can't find otherwise.
Speaker 1: And didn't you notice the pottery with the bridge cress?
Speaker 1: So quaint I bought a mug the two years ago,
Speaker 1: still of it at the house, she laughed, turning to
Speaker 1: m Laurent. You are always first to the blue pottery stall.
Speaker 1: He nodded, tipping his cup. You cannot miss that stall
Speaker 1: last time. The old woman's hold me a bread basket
Speaker 1: that same pattern as the manhow covers you know? She
Speaker 1: calls it the always river design. I meant to ask
Speaker 1: if anyone still makes the cloth it's based on, I blinked,
Speaker 1: So it really is a regular thing. The fourth Tuesday,
Speaker 1: Helene grinned, since before my grandmother's time. Sometimes it's bigger,
Speaker 1: sometimes just a handful of stalls, but always something unique
Speaker 1: turns up. She ticked off examples without paws, the ribbon
Speaker 1: pastries and not vendor with the best candied tazel nuts
Speaker 1: in the department. Their faces bore the soft smugness of
Speaker 1: people enjoying the memory of their own traditions. Yet when
Speaker 1: I drifted north along the plaza after lunch, I stopped
Speaker 1: into the newsagents to buy milk and brought up the
Speaker 1: morning's festivities. Jean the newsagent Franz sympathetically, Ye, mean the
Speaker 1: spring market. No, madam, not until next month. Maybe you
Speaker 1: saw workmen They repaired the paving every so often at
Speaker 1: the bakery. Madam shiver giggled, hands busy. But I shop
Speaker 1: past to Marches Marchier. The square was quiet as a mass.
Speaker 1: Are you dreaming already a festival season? Confuse? I circled back,
Speaker 1: only to discover that Helene, when cornered in the museum
Speaker 1: Salle three hours later, seemed unsure what I referred to.
Speaker 1: Did I say there was a market this morning? No? No,
Speaker 1: you must have misunderstood. I would never be up that early.
Speaker 1: My knees, you know, at my age. When I pressed
Speaker 1: the point mentioning her favorite cheese seller, she shrugged and
Speaker 1: suggested the heat had gone to my head. M Laurent,
Speaker 1: when I encountered him in the hallway, was similarly evasive.
Speaker 1: Ah ye, English, you expect every week to be a holiday. Eh?
Speaker 1: There are stalls? Yes? Sometimes? Did you remember to leave
Speaker 1: your window open for fresh air? Unable to pin down
Speaker 1: even those who had remembered with me, I tried another attack.
Speaker 1: That night. I combed the local papers online archive, searched
Speaker 1: for Tuesday Market and costume fare, and checked the council
Speaker 1: web sites eventlesstings for a fourth Tuesday entry. The only
Speaker 1: thing close was mentioned of a springtime f des Artisans
Speaker 1: in May, but it bore none of the distinctive features
Speaker 1: I'd witnessed. The square itself stood empty under the street lights,
Speaker 1: the stones undisturbed, the benches clean, no candy wrapper or
Speaker 1: not at Rebin, not even an impression in the dust
Speaker 1: were stall might have stood. The contradiction wormed its way deeper.
Speaker 1: My own memory was solid. Peculiarity was not a lack
Speaker 1: of evidence, but at its joint and collective recal conversations,
Speaker 1: feering one way in the morning and another in the afternoon,
Speaker 1: as if some invisible tight had turned. I couldn't shake
Speaker 1: the sense that every one's certainty was balanced on something fragile,
Speaker 1: prone to tilt at the faintest question. I set myself
Speaker 1: a task. As I had softened in the class room,
Speaker 1: next time I would record, I would witness. I would
Speaker 1: make the ephemeral last long enough to prove to myself,
Speaker 1: if not to every one else, that I had not
Speaker 1: simply dreamed the market through an open window. Asterisk asters
Speaker 1: asterisk a month slipped away, the day's swelling into peny
Speaker 1: blossoms and a perfume of damp clay from the river
Speaker 1: banks before the fourth Tuesday came around again. This time,
Speaker 1: preparation was methodical. My camera charged and checked, my sturdy
Speaker 1: note book, new graphite pencil page predated full at the
Speaker 1: read eat to record. I even raked a kitchen timer
Speaker 1: for five fifteen a m. One hour before sun rise,
Speaker 1: to ensure I would catch even the earliest stirrings. The
Speaker 1: minute the first blank scraped stone below my window, I
Speaker 1: was awakened. Ready. The sounds of setting up this time
Speaker 1: felt sharper, as if as spectation itself sharpened the world.
Speaker 1: I dressed quickly and settled at my wonder of camera
Speaker 1: lens pressed to the glass. Nope, but balance on my knee.
Speaker 1: The market assembled in swift, organized chaos. Tens unfurled with ease,
Speaker 1: stalls fitted with bolt's conjured from pockets, gold leaf signs
Speaker 1: slid on too hooks with casual precision. The stalls seemed
Speaker 1: realer than before, perhaps because I now anticipated their impossibility.
Speaker 1: I lit the camera strap around my rest and set
Speaker 1: out with more confidence than before, prepared to blend an
Speaker 1: if indeed, a tourist could blend him with the pageant
Speaker 1: of the past. As I crossed the square, voices mingled
Speaker 1: the butcher in the lin an apron discussing sheep breeds.
Speaker 1: I'd only read about tin textbooks the old Gray Noses
Speaker 1: from before the flood years Potter displaying palely bolls, thickly
Speaker 1: painted with a bridge that didn't match the carer and structure,
Speaker 1: a woman's licing dark crye cakes, and offering ukerns. The
Speaker 1: sweet had never tasted, said to be the sister's favorite.
Speaker 1: At the Old Feast, one stall caught my eye immediately,
Speaker 1: a woodcovered table fisted with miniature boats, masters sail stripe
Speaker 1: with painted insignia. I recognized them only dimly from a
Speaker 1: genealogy jarred in the museum's tank basement, families lost to
Speaker 1: the Great River Flood three centuries ago. When I asked
Speaker 1: him about the cymbals, he leaned in, smelling a fresh
Speaker 1: cut cedar. Ah Madam, the river remembers every one you know.
Speaker 1: Some names float, some sink to days for those who
Speaker 1: floated back. He offered me the smallest boat, smiling at trade.
Speaker 1: Next time you bring me a story, I give you another.
Speaker 1: I recorded his voice, noting the cagence and the peculiar
Speaker 1: little rhyme he sang under his breath, for all who sail,
Speaker 1: and all who men, The river's bogain never ends. The
Speaker 1: same hand I noticed had lighted his prices in an
Speaker 1: odd lipping script, one I'd seen only in museum captions
Speaker 1: for eighteen century civic records. Children ran past, skiffing a
Speaker 1: game that involved sudden stops and shouted phrases and dialect French.
Speaker 1: I barely traced its snatches of which match stands of
Speaker 1: fragments from a half lost reversalmme. Each time the wind
Speaker 1: caught their rubens, they sang out four quarters to the market,
Speaker 1: four turns round the sun. I circled the entire plausa,
Speaker 1: capturing photos the cobbles and a foot reflecting early light,
Speaker 1: a basket of eggs, the blue black off crows, a
Speaker 1: sceinstress who insisted her cloth board of old pattern of
Speaker 1: the missing street. I record the snippets of a hurdy
Speaker 1: gurdy melody is at wind, mournful, joyful around the stalls,
Speaker 1: the refrain uncannily familiar. Everywhere the material world felt both
Speaker 1: alive and out of step. The foods cakes with poppy
Speaker 1: and bitter orange, as noted in a museum mentioned but
Speaker 1: absent from every modern bakery. The good set of tin
Speaker 1: caps featuring a building long ago replaced by the library,
Speaker 1: its windows clobed with painted children's faces. Conversations with the
Speaker 1: vendors grew even more curious. They didn't speak like re enactors,
Speaker 1: unconcerned with context. When I asked the sausage cellar about
Speaker 1: his prices of such old coins, are they really accepted?
Speaker 1: He winked. On this day, all thats are honored, even
Speaker 1: the old ones. Another, the glove venda, explained her whares
Speaker 1: with pride from the old tanner on Rue Deus signy.
Speaker 1: My mother traded embroidery for these. Everyone here remembers the trades.
Speaker 1: I quick jotted her words, the camera set to record audio,
Speaker 1: thinking i'd corroborate the detail later. While late morning, exhausted
Speaker 1: by sensory overload, I retreated to my window. There I
Speaker 1: painstakingly cataloged every image, audio snips, and hand written noticed
Speaker 1: skuld dates, details, the word and faces keen as glass
Speaker 1: in memory. As Nune approached, I checked the photos. Each
Speaker 1: were oddly distorted. Some overexposed, others fading into greeny blanks.
Speaker 1: The sun fills glitched, leaping into legible waves. Even stranger,
Speaker 1: as I watched the handwriting in my notebooks seem to lighten, graphite,
Speaker 1: fading as if the words were being drawn up by sunlight,
Speaker 1: the paper going stiff and pale. My list of stole names,
Speaker 1: the coppied rhyme, all but the first stanzas of children's
Speaker 1: songs disappearing before my eyes. Downstairs, I heard church bells.
Speaker 1: By the time they finished, I glanced out, not a
Speaker 1: single soul in the square. Were only minutes before vibrant color, sound,
Speaker 1: and bustling life had pressed in, There was now bare
Speaker 1: stone and drifting dust. I went immediately to the bakery,
Speaker 1: and over lunch tried the same tactic as last month.
Speaker 1: Madame Schefer, slicing her usual cheese, denied anything but her
Speaker 1: own routine. To day is only Tuesday, no market, Madam may, perhaps,
Speaker 1: but not now. When I presented her with the notebook,
Speaker 1: empty but of a single scratch line, always four turns round,
Speaker 1: she tuttered sympathetically, getting older, not what is cracked up
Speaker 1: to be? Eh. I tried Haileen again, this time showing
Speaker 1: her the corrupted photos. She only smiled, offering to refill
Speaker 1: my coffee and admonishing me not to let the dreams
Speaker 1: out On the days, Frustrated, I visited Joan at the
Speaker 1: news end, Maxim the alley, the sisters with their embroidered shawls.
Speaker 1: Every practical check failed. My evidence so methodically assembled, dissolved
Speaker 1: to nothing. Each person showed puzzlement, but not alarm. No
Speaker 1: one seemed inclined to join my investigation or even probe
Speaker 1: the oddity. It was as if the market existed at
Speaker 1: the periphery of collective attention, possible taxis only in passing
Speaker 1: impossible to retain. That night, I reviewed all that remained.
Speaker 1: One snatch of a melody humming faintly in my mind,
Speaker 1: a ribbon stray caught on a window sill, the impression
Speaker 1: of a blue ball soft as a shadow. My curiosity
Speaker 1: had become something else, not quite the hunt for proof,
Speaker 1: but chase after meaning. Was it also elaborate joke on outsiders,
Speaker 1: or less likely but more thrilling, a phenomenon bound not
Speaker 1: by wreckers or rituals, but by attention itself. Could it
Speaker 1: be that by trying to capture it I was dismissing whatever,
Speaker 1: let it happen at all. I refined my question. Did
Speaker 1: the marquet only appear for the new rivals, or was
Speaker 1: there another pattern, something older, deeper? If it depended on
Speaker 1: my own noticing, was I part of the mechanism? That night,
Speaker 1: I resolved to test the boundaries of the custom, whatever
Speaker 1: it was, asturis astoris asterisk. I approached the task next month,
Speaker 1: with all the patients the decade of teaching seven year
Speaker 1: olds had honed in me. I would not simply document.
Speaker 1: I would dig a knot as an outsider, but as
Speaker 1: one with some stake, no matter how tenuous, in the
Speaker 1: tangle's gain of local memory. Rather than haunt in the
Speaker 1: market square, I started in the museum's archive, a cold
Speaker 1: dust brush cellar that smelled of dry glue and disused
Speaker 1: card catalogs. The town's history was not, as it turned out,
Speaker 1: all perfectly preserved. There were gaps and contradictions. A smudge
Speaker 1: festival calendar here, a water damage council minute there. I
Speaker 1: began with old time lines, a hand drawn year chart
Speaker 1: hung with colored threats. In the seventeenth and most of
Speaker 1: the eighteenth centuries, there was indeed a reference to a
Speaker 1: Midsimer Grand Marches, Yemence and Lively, famous through the region
Speaker 1: for settling not only trade accounts, but marriages, border disputes,
Speaker 1: and unresolved freckenings. But something odd emerged as the years advanced.
Speaker 1: In some decades the central square was labeled on a
Speaker 1: squall Grand Market Parvis, but in years following the catastrophic
Speaker 1: sixteen seventy two flawed the label vanished. In other places
Speaker 1: the record was blank, or the square replaced with pocket silence,
Speaker 1: once even grieving stones. The market was at best a
Speaker 1: moving target, sometimes a civic institution, sometimes in absence. One
Speaker 1: clipping from an eighteen eighties broadsheet marked the last official
Speaker 1: Midsum affair, then appended innked in small at more private handwriting.
Speaker 1: Still on the right day, you may find what you seek.
Speaker 1: In the museum stairwell. I paused at a painted panel
Speaker 1: mid nineteenth century that had always puzzled locals. Market stalls
Speaker 1: glowed under a sky split with cloud and light. The
Speaker 1: crowd at first was generic, faces blurred with the paint's age,
Speaker 1: But the longer I looked, the more I recognized them,
Speaker 1: not just from local legends but from daily life. There
Speaker 1: was Madame Shev's arch cheekbones, M Lawrence slouch, even what
Speaker 1: looked like Max's half cock smiling, possibly absurdly rendered in
Speaker 1: a painting over a century old, still the most confounding evidence,
Speaker 1: kim laid and partial, as genuine discovery often does in
Speaker 1: a water stain genealogy from a cellar box. I trace
Speaker 1: the names hand painted on the toy boats, the same
Speaker 1: as in the market families otherwise absent from every time
Speaker 1: registered post, flawed, as if the vanished one still populated
Speaker 1: some parallel roll call at the edges of official memory.
Speaker 1: Embarrassed by my growing obsession, I almost missed a visiting
Speaker 1: historians card, slid into the librari's in books. Doctor Jeremy Simes, Oxford,
Speaker 1: phocal scholar seeking persistent traditions. We met in the museum's
Speaker 1: call in a parlor. I told my story my brain,
Speaker 1: arranging the contradictions and order, careful to present it as
Speaker 1: an oddity, not symptom. Doctor Symes Stocky Engenil listened without interruption.
Speaker 1: This is not so unusual as you might think. Ms
Speaker 1: Hawley's theorecase is more minor, but suggestive of a song.
Speaker 1: Sometimes even in old procession local memory outlive's official record.
Speaker 1: Sometimes it grows stronger where physical proof of rords I
Speaker 1: insisted on the impossibility. Coins that should be in museums,
Speaker 1: recipes are recorded since the library fire of nineteen twenty eight,
Speaker 1: children's games lost to every documentation, He mused. But perhaps
Speaker 1: you are not witnessing a mother at all. Perhaps you're
Speaker 1: seeing a memory so densely woven it refreshes itself given
Speaker 1: the right conditions, I frowned. So it's just my mind
Speaker 1: or a mass hallucination. The children, why do they know
Speaker 1: games that don't even survive in their own family stories?
Speaker 1: He shrugged, eyes glittering. Memory is not solely personal, nor
Speaker 1: is it absolute. There are places, whole villages, even where
Speaker 1: a story retold enough will surface, resisting oblivine, weaving itsself
Speaker 1: into custom. Some call at communal echoing, some call at fuco. Sometimes,
Speaker 1: if a tradition matters deeply enough, a community resumes it unconsciously,
Speaker 1: at least for a handful. Suddenly the pieces re arranged themselves.
Speaker 1: I was less interested in whether the market could be
Speaker 1: proved by camera or a notebook, and more in whether
Speaker 1: my own presence is witness matted at all? Had I
Speaker 1: outside her as I was stumbled upon a seam in
Speaker 1: the town's memory, a window opening that let the story
Speaker 1: not only be told, but lived, if only for stolen hours.
Speaker 1: Was it a secret of performance or something stranger, a
Speaker 1: phenomenon of memory made temporarily reel. The old urge to
Speaker 1: pin down mystery softened, giving way to wonder. Doctor Seims
Speaker 1: shook my hand gently as I left, eyes earnest. Not
Speaker 1: all reality consists of what is built or written, Mss Holly's.
Speaker 1: Sometimes memory calls things back, not to be measured, but
Speaker 1: to be sheared, and yes, sometimes mended. That night, with
Speaker 1: the river hush rising to my window and the print
Speaker 1: of toy boats lining my mind, I felt the boundaries
Speaker 1: of possibility shifted. Some were slightly less stable, but infinitely
Speaker 1: more interesting. I no longer asked only is this real?
Speaker 1: Instead the better question was what is this for? From
Speaker 1: then on, my curiosity outpaysd my hesitations, lending afresh, almost child,
Speaker 1: I pitched to the first notes of dawn on every
Speaker 1: fourth Tuesday. The days between stretched lawn and content, I
Speaker 1: settled into my rolls as neighbor, amateur, local historian, and
Speaker 1: tell love stories. Yet those early mornings before the town's
Speaker 1: routines could settle, the river's surface became anchor points, and
Speaker 1: as soon as Doctor Signs boarded his trained back to Oxford,
Speaker 1: I felt less alone in my bewilderment and more invested
Speaker 1: in the town's quiet than possible scene. The next fourth Tuesday,
Speaker 1: I woke before my alarm, heart hammering with anticipation and
Speaker 1: the loose strings of unsolved memories. I dressed quickly, old
Speaker 1: teaching blouse, sensible troussos, new shoes I bought for in
Speaker 1: pretty stable spring reins, and top my now nearly empty
Speaker 1: notebook into coat pocket, alongside pulse full of old coins
Speaker 1: had gathered from flea markets and a photograph of my family,
Speaker 1: just in case impulse require the trade. The market rose
Speaker 1: out of the early darkness, as always methodical, purposeful, yet
Speaker 1: utterly unhurried. This time the bloom of color seemed warmer
Speaker 1: for my anticipation, orchestrip's violet sashes, sweep of banners over
Speaker 1: the bakery's arched doorway. It smelled more alive, too, dorant spice,
Speaker 1: wood smoke, wild time crushed on the foot. I felt
Speaker 1: compelled not to record, but to take part, to join,
Speaker 1: as doctor Synes had hinted in a mystery, not as
Speaker 1: an observer, but as a participant. My palms tinkled, my
Speaker 1: breath caught at the thought, this time of being recognized
Speaker 1: at the first row of stalls, I hesitated by the
Speaker 1: wood cover, the same figure whose hands moved deftly among
Speaker 1: scraps and ribbons. Welcome back, he said, pressing a toy
Speaker 1: boat into my palm, as if I had never left
Speaker 1: the story this year his axe and blurred, as though
Speaker 1: the words themselves were built on two years at once.
Speaker 1: I nodded eagerly and sure whether to recount the loss
Speaker 1: of skull memory, a strained relationship with my mother, a
Speaker 1: favorite I'd forgotten the lyrics to instead, Overcoming a flutter
Speaker 1: of nerves, I pressed my photograph into the cover's waiting hand.
Speaker 1: My children have never seen this place, but perhaps you
Speaker 1: could carve something for Laurel or Jack or I trailed off.
Speaker 1: The depth of my would surprise me, he smiled, and
Speaker 1: for a second I fancied I saw my father's manner
Speaker 1: in the tilt of his head. Of course, madam, memories
Speaker 1: for those who do not yet walk here are important
Speaker 1: to He wrapped the photo with two slits of cedar,
Speaker 1: binding it with blue string, and told me to come
Speaker 1: back later. Further on, children pass paper crowns along the chain,
Speaker 1: laughing in a song whose language made my scalp prickle,
Speaker 1: half familiar, the lilt of a playground refrain I had
Speaker 1: not heard since childhood. I saw brooming with reubens and
Speaker 1: lace drew me. Next, I bought one of the pastries
Speaker 1: had noted last time, ucurans, dense and brown, and syrup dark,
Speaker 1: the taste unexpectedly reminding me of the burnt sugar holidays
Speaker 1: of my own youth. The circle dance started unexpectedly, wringing
Speaker 1: a round a man with a concertina. I found myself
Speaker 1: swept in at first clumsy, but the patterns came back, step, turn, clap,
Speaker 1: half a circle past the child beside me. Down the road,
Speaker 1: a woman two heads taller than I bent close and
Speaker 1: called me Lawleyed, the name only ever used by my mother.
Speaker 1: My voice caught, then I laughed instead of crying. The
Speaker 1: moment felt as true as any I had ever experienced.
Speaker 1: But more than that, the surrounding strangers, the sense of recognition,
Speaker 1: of conclusion. A blue pottery stall, a young girl squinted
Speaker 1: at me before holding up a dish for the window
Speaker 1: so you can see whenever the rain comes along. The
Speaker 1: lip had been painted the rooftops of my own building.
Speaker 1: But there in the top window was a small figure
Speaker 1: in a red cardigan, peering up. I lost track of
Speaker 1: time and meshed in these impossible exchanges until I sensed
Speaker 1: I was not alone in my curiosity. A coster near
Speaker 1: the fountain, three figures in an animated conversation, each holding
Speaker 1: something from the stalls, kept glance in my way. I
Speaker 1: approached cautious book compelled first. A retired clockmaker I had
Speaker 1: met once at the book club straightened his back as
Speaker 1: I joined. So it's not just me, he said tumlow.
Speaker 1: I thought, perhaps, old age you understand memories sliding, But
Speaker 1: here you are. I still remember when the market first
Speaker 1: slipped out of the town's memory nineteen sixty four, when
Speaker 1: my brother drowned. I stood here and the stall were
Speaker 1: I found disweater years after the flood. Only, of course
Speaker 1: it couldn't have been the second. A tall, wiry school
Speaker 1: girl with things stains on her hands nodded, Mammon, thinks
Speaker 1: it's something to do with my imagination. But I brought
Speaker 1: my friend last time, and when nan came, he couldn't remember.
Speaker 1: I kept my hair ribbon. I know where I got it,
Speaker 1: but even when I show my teacher, she just says,
Speaker 1: no one sells these any more. The last, an elderly man,
Speaker 1: clutching what appeared to be about without a clapper, said softly,
Speaker 1: each year it's harder to bring things back. I try
Speaker 1: to write in my diwary after the bells, but the
Speaker 1: page cleans itself. Yet when I meet others who remember,
Speaker 1: I feel he shrugged, searching for the word returned. Perhaps
Speaker 1: The group included a baker's assistant from the renew of
Speaker 1: her apron dusted with flower, who joined the whispering circle.
Speaker 1: As I arrived. My aunt says she used to see
Speaker 1: the market in dreams. I think it's more like a
Speaker 1: story we tell so often. It steps into the day.
Speaker 1: Huddle together, sparing glances. For the rest of the stalls,
Speaker 1: we compared notes the objects we'd failed to keep, The
Speaker 1: moments remembered only when spoken aloud. The gradual drift of
Speaker 1: each Fourth Tuesday's memory to mister Whin shared with outsiders,
Speaker 1: it became clear that the nomina was not merely personal.
Speaker 1: We were not alone, and the market itself might require
Speaker 1: us to us aware was still reaching to maintain its
Speaker 1: tenuous footing. The clockmaker Morris had tried to tape record
Speaker 1: his own voice at the market, only to discover the
Speaker 1: taper rays by afternoon. Marie the student described writing Markeet
Speaker 1: on her palm of permanent marker, only for it to
Speaker 1: wash off in the nuon sun. Each had kept some
Speaker 1: lingering trait, a strong scent of annis and cinnamon, the
Speaker 1: blue smudges of pottery clays, the drum of music in
Speaker 1: their ears. None of these arvived the day, But what
Speaker 1: endured was something less material, a bitter, sweet carty, as
Speaker 1: though a door between seasons had been briefly unlocked. As
Speaker 1: we mingled, sampling spice, bread, and cross referencing each object
Speaker 1: and story, we saw patterns exchanges that the market often involved.
Speaker 1: Good are fret missing from the tan's current record, gloves
Speaker 1: matching those in an eighteen thirties waiting inventory token stamp
Speaker 1: with Vanish street names, bells marked with the crest of
Speaker 1: the long lost North Chapel. Maurice quinted at her ribbon,
Speaker 1: as if she could force it to disclose its origins.
Speaker 1: We trade what was lost. She said, and somehow sometimes
Speaker 1: it comes back here just for a morning or maybe
Speaker 1: venture bodin the elderly man. We may making up for
Speaker 1: all debts, things forgotten, or relationships never mended. Each year
Speaker 1: there's a stall for someone I once quarreled with. To
Speaker 1: day it was this he waved the bell, and now
Speaker 1: I feel lighter. I suppose each of us realized, through
Speaker 1: overlapping stories and objects that barely conto reality, that the
Speaker 1: market felt less like a nostalgia show than a ritual
Speaker 1: and necessary reconciliation with all that the town had misplaced,
Speaker 1: cut away, or drowned. We no longer asked whether it
Speaker 1: really happened. It was more that a question of goso tricks.
Speaker 1: It was, as doctor Simes had posited, something we carried together,
Speaker 1: a living negotiation with forgetting. The urge proved dissolved, replaced
Speaker 1: by a stronger desire to participate, because in doing so
Speaker 1: we suspected the market became possible at all. As the
Speaker 1: nuon bell sounded, we rejoined the flow, exchanging glances heavy
Speaker 1: with mutual recognition. By the time the last echo of
Speaker 1: the hurdyger De faded, the Plazza was only sun and
Speaker 1: stone my bakery bag was empty at the pottery dish,
Speaker 1: once witty in my hand, now nothing but a faint
Speaker 1: outline in memory. But among the group, warm in the
Speaker 1: after glow of a secret morning, and unspoken understanding flourished,
Speaker 1: we agreed to meet again, to share an experiment, to
Speaker 1: test a bandary's memory and see what else might be
Speaker 1: revealed if we work together. Our plan was simple. On
Speaker 1: the next fourth Tuesday, we would map the market, not
Speaker 1: by means of writing or photography, but in conversation, verbal,
Speaker 1: immediate and shared within the group. Each would pike stall
Speaker 1: ask for stories about lost places or fading families, and
Speaker 1: then we would convene, compiling a loud a shadow map
Speaker 1: of the vanish, the re emerging, and the unresolved. With
Speaker 1: growing trust, we agree whatever persisted after the bells would
Speaker 1: be spoken together, a living wreck of resisting solitary decay.
Speaker 1: I felt for the first time that whatever the market was,
Speaker 1: it was only as vulnerable and as enduring as our
Speaker 1: willingness to participate openly, to bear witness, not alone but collectively.
Speaker 1: That next Fourth Tuesday arrived with a thick, low fog,
Speaker 1: which among our little fellowship immediately prompted excited speculation remember
Speaker 1: Marie whispered last month, the old woman at the wollstall
Speaker 1: said the best markets were on foggy mornings. We laughed quietly,
Speaker 1: then dispersed around the plaza, note taking only in our heads.
Speaker 1: At the scar offenders asked about the families she embroidered
Speaker 1: on her goods. She replied, eyes fluttering, as if does
Speaker 1: for truth rather than a calling. And some I know
Speaker 1: by heart. Others come to me as I sow. If
Speaker 1: ever someone is left off, they'll tug at my sleeves
Speaker 1: all day. You have to follow the threads. It's not
Speaker 1: just what is, madam. Sometimes the market holds what should
Speaker 1: have been. Boldin approached a stall where vendor's old pairs
Speaker 1: of faded gloves. The colors are matched, the stitching obviously
Speaker 1: repaired a dozen times. He returned, recounting the story. These
Speaker 1: gloves are traded yet a year between the grand children
Speaker 1: of two families who fell out over a boundary stone
Speaker 1: in nineteen o five. Each time someone takes them, the
Speaker 1: coral feels a little softer. Morris found a bell identical
Speaker 1: but for a faint crack marked with the crest of
Speaker 1: the vanished North Chapel. The vendor insisted it returns only
Speaker 1: when a river's low enough. He related this detail cross
Speaker 1: referencing an old map in his memory showing a side
Speaker 1: channel now paved over. Murrie, curious about language. Tractor recipes
Speaker 1: shared only at one stall, a cake for the missing days.
Speaker 1: The method was not written down, only murmured, and she
Speaker 1: had to repeat it out love for us around the
Speaker 1: now damn coffee table lest it drift away. I watched,
Speaker 1: half entranced as the pattern the merge, the market, stitch
Speaker 1: gaps in town memory, momentarily restoring vanished customs, old feuds,
Speaker 1: and even recipes lost to fire or flood. Our spoken
Speaker 1: inventory grew a verbal outlas of omission and recovery. As
Speaker 1: a teacher Anitis Modewell, knowledge solidified not by private journaling,
Speaker 1: but by rehearsal, retelling, and above all, share focus. To
Speaker 1: further our experiment, we gathered again at eleven wenty near
Speaker 1: the Old Fountain Sight, sitting together and retelling every object,
Speaker 1: story and stall observed. Each recounted what they learned. The
Speaker 1: information seemed to cohered, strong and complete in the very
Speaker 1: act of being shared. One more is stumble. Recalling a detail.
Speaker 1: Marie picked up the thread, piecing together gaps, as if
Speaker 1: memory itself thickened in the space between voices. We noticed
Speaker 1: that these spoken records in Javaur's later we still remembered
Speaker 1: details with clarity. We stopped trying to write, and the
Speaker 1: mental shadow map of the lost town became firmer with
Speaker 1: every retelling. Our excitement mounted. Could it be? We asked
Speaker 1: that the market's reality only stabilized through collaborative memory, not
Speaker 1: only as ritual tradition, but as an act of social renewal.
Speaker 1: As we debated, bodoin gesture startled to a patch of
Speaker 1: sunlight catching the north edge of the plaza. There, visible
Speaker 1: even fog, was a faintly painted ring, an outline matching
Speaker 1: the vanished fountain shown only on century old maps. None
Speaker 1: had seen it before, not even more soon, he joked
Speaker 1: that either the market is kind to us today, or
Speaker 1: we've all bent in the same direction long enough to
Speaker 1: catch a glimpse. The understanding solidified this phenomenon, This return
Speaker 1: of tradition was not a haunting, but a structure built
Speaker 1: and vivid if temporary consent. It was an agreement, a
Speaker 1: compromise across generations made possible for expectation, anticipation and the
Speaker 1: weaving together of many partial, perishable memories. That evening, as
Speaker 1: we sat clustered at the bakery table, savoring what scrapsling
Speaker 1: out of the taste and sounds of market morning, our
Speaker 1: conversation grew harsh. None of us claimed to understand if folly,
Speaker 1: but the feeling was unmistakable. The reality of the market
Speaker 1: had shifted from me oddity to necessary celebration, a communal
Speaker 1: practice of repair and remembrance impossible alone Doctor Simes, who
Speaker 1: would returned to the town with the explanation that nothing
Speaker 1: in my studies quite behaves. As this Stes joined us
Speaker 1: the following month, he listened with fascination as we described
Speaker 1: our experiments. It's like a resonance, he mused. Our recurring
Speaker 1: communal echo rituals sometimes leave a kind of imprint on
Speaker 1: place in time, specially when anchored to loss of flood,
Speaker 1: a war of family broken. If enough people wish, consciously
Speaker 1: or not, for the custom to return, well, your market
Speaker 1: appears to have grown enough to life. He drew parallels
Speaker 1: with traditions in central Italy Festival for Loss Saints, recurring
Speaker 1: decades after its official cancelation, resurfacing only were a critical
Speaker 1: mass of townspeople expected it often enough to draw it
Speaker 1: out of mere nostalgia and back into lived reality, even
Speaker 1: if just for a night. Those who remember together experienced
Speaker 1: the event. Outsiders an even close family, would forget or
Speaker 1: dismissed the proceedings as a dream. Shared expectation, more than
Speaker 1: any single memory, seemed to be the key. He asked,
Speaker 1: have you noticed whether the market occurs in years when
Speaker 1: the square is under repair or was inaccessible during floods
Speaker 1: or construction. Morris's face brightened as he recalled the year
Speaker 1: they closed the bridge for repairs. No market. It felt
Speaker 1: as though something had wavered. The tension was strong, but
Speaker 1: nothing came of it. When the path was cleared, snapped
Speaker 1: back the next year, as if we'd never miss a beat.
Speaker 1: We pieced together with the mounting sense of all that
Speaker 1: the market was steady only in as much as the
Speaker 1: town's underlying consent, conscious or not, could carry it. It
Speaker 1: needed the shape of longing for reconciliation, for forgotten names,
Speaker 1: or simply for the repetition that makes time gender. It
Speaker 1: became a time capsule of sorts of rather than burage,
Speaker 1: recalling not only what genuinely occurred, but what the town
Speaker 1: wished had survived. Our attempts at documentation continued to fail,
Speaker 1: but it became clear that this was not a matter
Speaker 1: of supernatural hostility to record keeping. Any memory made solitary,
Speaker 1: untold and shared faded. Any memory voiced aloud put into
Speaker 1: communal circulation persisted in the web of conversation. The phenomenon,
Speaker 1: rather than being an anomaly to be pinned and mounted,
Speaker 1: was a binding mechanism, a ritual for social repair, its
Speaker 1: persistence entirely dependent on the tension between loss and mutual remembering.
Speaker 1: Sims note that perhaps were not meant to preserve the
Speaker 1: market as a museum piece. Perhaps it's a process restoring
Speaker 1: to life whatever most needs healing a forgotten street, a
Speaker 1: family feud or recipe, a friendship lost. The point is
Speaker 1: not the market's permanence, but its power to let the
Speaker 1: community acknowledge what's been silenced and to let change happen.
Speaker 1: I understood then that my own attempts to capture proof,
Speaker 1: to fix the phenomenon in files and photos were a
Speaker 1: best missing the point. It wasn't about establishing that the
Speaker 1: market truly happened in the sense demanded by outsiders or
Speaker 1: future researchers. Rather The point was that the market was
Speaker 1: the sum of what we remembered together, always partial, always
Speaker 1: in flux, but briefly and wondrously whole when enough voice
Speaker 1: is joined the echoes of my classroom is the way
Speaker 1: I'd held on to class room. Richell's long after curriculum
Speaker 1: changed relishing. How a whispered story could survive across years
Speaker 1: of tiny hands and growing mindes felt nearly relevant. Traditions
Speaker 1: were not only preserved through documentation, but in the circuits
Speaker 1: of story and its pectation, adapted, amended with every telling.
Speaker 1: The group looked at one another, a hush falling that
Speaker 1: was less silenced than fullness. Bowdoin voice, Rough said, perhaps
Speaker 1: the point is never to finish the trades or to
Speaker 1: write every name. Perhaps it's enough to keep me to hear,
Speaker 1: making room for what's missing. Marie offered a soft smile.
Speaker 1: If we remember together, the market returns. It doesn't matter
Speaker 1: if no one else believes us, or if we never
Speaker 1: managed to explain it, as long as we're here well,
Speaker 1: four quarters to the market, four turns round the sun.
Speaker 1: That's how my grandmother put it at that something inside
Speaker 1: me softened and opened there How and why? Madder but
Speaker 1: What mattered most was this invitation, the possible that, through
Speaker 1: our acts of memory, spoken, shared, or received, the market
Speaker 1: made itself necessary, and, for its brief window real, it
Speaker 1: allowed us all to pick up the threads of what
Speaker 1: was lost and draw them, for a moment, into the present.
Speaker 1: In the months that followed, I stopped trying to remneuver
Speaker 1: the strangeness. Instead I leaned in inviting him, Laurent, the Sisters, Helene,
Speaker 1: anyone who showed even a glimmer of curiosity to come
Speaker 1: walking eily with me on fourth Tuesdays. Some would smile
Speaker 1: and humor me. Others made the excuse of sleep or work.
Speaker 1: But little by little our group grew, not just the
Speaker 1: self identified rememberers, but those willing to sit, listen, or
Speaker 1: share a story they feared no place informal record. The
Speaker 1: market itself did not swell dwindle to match our numbers,
Speaker 1: but it felt more vivid, more closely in it to
Speaker 1: the present. With each new retelling, debts were settled without paperwork.
Speaker 1: Lost objects found new purpose or came gently to rest
Speaker 1: with someone who needed them. Children laugh, uncertain whether they
Speaker 1: had danced that danced before. The memory already weaving forward
Speaker 1: toward the next year. What change was not the market spectacle,
Speaker 1: but my view of the town itself. I saw with
Speaker 1: rare clarity the ways your disitiontions knitted time together, a
Speaker 1: recipe passed sideways, the grudge put to bed, and new
Speaker 1: greeting in the old dialect, small gestures rippling outward, settled
Speaker 1: but decisive. My own classroom had thrived unjust such gly,
Speaker 1: the harmless, misremembered lyrics though birthday rituals no one had
Speaker 1: written down, but everyone cherished with things threatened to frey.
Speaker 1: I felt not merely an observer, but part of a
Speaker 1: chain of um finished repairs. Each market day became more
Speaker 1: an invitation than a secretive way to signal quietly that
Speaker 1: anyone could step into the round with only a story,
Speaker 1: an object, or a greeting. By then I only brought
Speaker 1: my notebook for comfort, writing nothing save one line, always
Speaker 1: the same. What we remember we restore. After each market
Speaker 1: my page was blank again, but the meaning was now movable.
Speaker 1: I sometimes wondered what would happen if one year no
Speaker 1: one came, if the threads of expectation thinned to nothing,
Speaker 1: would the market fade away? Gentle and unresentful. It's work complete.
Speaker 1: It did not seem now to require aunts's only witnesses
Speaker 1: ready to keep the loop of memory open, just long
Speaker 1: enough for another trade, another laugh, one more tuneplate on
Speaker 1: the hurdy gurdy. On the morning of another fourth Tuesday,
Speaker 1: I sat in my window as stone crept over the
Speaker 1: market square. The colors below quivered with possibility, brighter than memory,
Speaker 1: less certain than proof. The air carried laughter, perhaps on
Speaker 1: their trick of the wind, perhaps the first notes of
Speaker 1: a circle dance already forming, inviting someone new to join.
Speaker 1: It struck me that reality, in its deepest texture, might
Speaker 1: rest not on the things we could point or frame
Speaker 1: in photographs, but on the slender, luminous threads we chose
Speaker 1: together to weave across time, shared attention, shared longing, shared story.
Speaker 1: These lifted the market from rumor to presence, if only
Speaker 1: for those still willing to witness. I still don't know
Speaker 1: if the world allows for impossible markets, or if perhaps
Speaker 1: possibilities always waiting half visible wherever enough people remember the
Speaker 1: shape of absence dared to hold it gently together. A
Speaker 1: robin flickered on the stone below, caught by sunlight, the
Speaker 1: echo of a morning spent among friends and former strangers, laughter,
Speaker 1: mixing with old river air. How many markets wait in silence,
Speaker 1: at the edge of every one's attention, longing not for
Speaker 1: record or belief, but for enough voices to remember them
Speaker 1: back into being. And that is the end. Thank you
Speaker 1: for listening, and I will see you in the next one.