Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. The lad you
Speaker 1: are here, Let's get into it. It's started, as most
Speaker 1: small mysteries do, with a bit of code intention, returning
Speaker 1: an oddment that wasn't mine to the people who cared
Speaker 1: about such things. I'd found the map by accident, tucked
Speaker 1: inside a packet of misdirected mailbound in about a paper band.
Speaker 1: The sendo long since passed on as far as anyone
Speaker 1: at the post office could tell. I've recognized the recipient's
Speaker 1: name on the included letter, Missess Callum at a historical society,
Speaker 1: so I decided to deliver it myself on one of
Speaker 1: those early spring mornings when the town still smells faintly
Speaker 1: of the sea in daffodils. The Historical Society occupies the
Speaker 1: two back rooms of the old Dons House by the
Speaker 1: Market Square. It's a fusty, dignified nook with a glass
Speaker 1: topped counter and the frown of history in every creek
Speaker 1: of the floorboards. Missess Calum herself was not yet rived,
Speaker 1: so I left the bundle for her, but not before
Speaker 1: enrolling the strange old map for a quick glance. I
Speaker 1: love a good map for forty odd years I tramped
Speaker 1: every street in our town by froat, by bicycle, even
Speaker 1: by sledge one infamous winter Fustus a postman then as
Speaker 1: a sort of an official guide for anyone lost or curious.
Speaker 1: I know the cities by ways as a person knows
Speaker 1: their own kitchen drawers. So that morning, in still dark
Speaker 1: and surprisingly cresp despite the age, I traced my finger
Speaker 1: along the familiar veins and arteries the market, the salt Lane,
Speaker 1: the crooked terraces are past Wren's Landing, the taid network
Speaker 1: of alis behind the port side. All accurate, all exactly
Speaker 1: is remembered, until I found something I could not place.
Speaker 1: Paplin Lane, tiny nestled between Greeve's Alley and the old
Speaker 1: Clockmaker's workshop. An exquisitely drawn thread with two butterfly shapes
Speaker 1: set statia end. Its name Paplin was written in a neat,
Speaker 1: looping script, and like the blunt block letters of every
Speaker 1: other street, I blinked cross, referencing memory and compass. The
Speaker 1: place at mark would be well. It ought to be
Speaker 1: the gap between the back of Minton's bookshop and the
Speaker 1: garden wall of the workshop. But as far as I
Speaker 1: could recall, there had never been a lane there just
Speaker 1: a solid run of brickwork and a cluster of viruses.
Speaker 1: I frowned, running the tip of my index finger over
Speaker 1: the thinning track again. The rest of the map fit
Speaker 1: reality like an old glove. I could see every alley
Speaker 1: I'd ever posted a letter to, every short cut I
Speaker 1: had ever sworn by. But no papal In lane, never
Speaker 1: in all those years. On my way home that evening
Speaker 1: curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to
Speaker 1: warp the long way round pass Minton's and the clock
Speaker 1: makers disused shop from shutter tight as a drawn These
Speaker 1: days glass reppled with age. I counted the paces from
Speaker 1: mat Memory eighteen to the garden gate, then a shop
Speaker 1: right where papal And should begin. Instead, there was nothing
Speaker 1: but a low stone wall, half smothered at hannasuckle, at
Speaker 1: a cramped better forget me nots bloish in a dusk.
Speaker 1: I even circled the block twice, hoping perhaps the map
Speaker 1: was skewed by perspective of old cartographic standards. Still nothing,
Speaker 1: My feet found only the collision of toeperary and ancient
Speaker 1: red bricks. I kept looking for a signed derret Warren,
Speaker 1: as if by passage hinges for a lass gate, even
Speaker 1: the shadow of a long removed street lamp, but found nothing,
Speaker 1: only the stray scent of something sweet and unseasonably fresh.
Speaker 1: I let it go, but not easily. I pride myself
Speaker 1: on my internal map of this town. I remember time
Speaker 1: nines of neighbour's illnesses, which garden roses bloom first, every
Speaker 1: dog by shortcut, and no Hablam lane did not belong.
Speaker 1: Yet there it was undeniable and black and white as
Speaker 1: real salt lane of Spiller's Court. I told myself it
Speaker 1: was likely some defunct slipway blocked off and paved over
Speaker 1: years before my time. But as night pulled in the
Speaker 1: corners of my flat, the one above the shuttered post office,
Speaker 1: my little empire of memory, I found myself drawn back
Speaker 1: to the puzzle. I pictured the two wink butterflies, their
Speaker 1: wings at stretched across an impossible passage. Why would a
Speaker 1: map so accurate in all other respects in vent one lane?
Speaker 1: Had the cartographer lost their mine? Or had I? The
Speaker 1: question burrowed in, soft and persistent as rain against stone.
Speaker 1: The next morning I resumed my well worn routine, trying
Speaker 1: not to let the maps enigma seed me. I live
Speaker 1: above the old post office, mostly because I never saw
Speaker 1: the scent. In moving elsewhere it suits me find creaky floors,
Speaker 1: the muffle chime of the port bells, and an almost
Speaker 1: proprietory view of the town's main arteries. The post office
Speaker 1: shuttered now for six years, but left largely in change
Speaker 1: marks the center of what some call the old town.
Speaker 1: Beyond the Square in the market, things get stranger, more knotted.
Speaker 1: A street's name for vanished trays, gull's wheeling, odd weather vanes,
Speaker 1: one in the shape of a stag, another a sheaf
Speaker 1: of wheat, and another for reasons nobody seems to remember
Speaker 1: an angel clutching a clock. My days shuffle along a
Speaker 1: pleasing order. Morning walk along the harbor, exs and te
Speaker 1: from Miss Esterow at her pop up market stall. An
Speaker 1: hour over the chessboard with my neighbor Tom, who cheats
Speaker 1: as often as he forgets the rules. Then a quiet
Speaker 1: pined at the square and compass. Come afternoon, and if
Speaker 1: there's still some energy left, stroll among the alloways as
Speaker 1: the dust comes on. If there is a steadier creature
Speaker 1: by habit than me, I have yet to meet them.
Speaker 1: It's a town that rewards such steadiness. But only so far.
Speaker 1: The place is made of centuries of careful forgetting and
Speaker 1: slig adaptition. You can walk a circuit one morning and
Speaker 1: pass three freshly painted window frames. A postpot will located
Speaker 1: a make sure cafe where yesterday there was a hab
Speaker 1: or Dasher's window. Some sail our Brinton layout is just
Speaker 1: the result of old boundaries and shifting tides. Others claim
Speaker 1: the streets simply don't like to be pinned. There's the
Speaker 1: legend of the stone urn and alley that every few
Speaker 1: generations takes a different doglic confounding surveyors and the annoying milkmen.
Speaker 1: People laugh, but everyone has a story. The pub that
Speaker 1: wandered a few feet, the bell tower that swears its
Speaker 1: shadow never falls in quite the same place. The clockmakers
Speaker 1: Shop sits at the very edge of this looseness, once
Speaker 1: h Orn and Sun Clockmakers. Its sign is faded, windows
Speaker 1: thick with dust, door sealed since I was barely forty
Speaker 1: the plot. It sits on a small oddly wed shaped
Speaker 1: clearly marked on that engine map, with a bold black
Speaker 1: square terminus, supposedly for papal And Lane. These days it's
Speaker 1: a curiosity, a place for scaffolding to gallo lenam for
Speaker 1: cat's nap in the wan sunlight. Our annual clock Fair
Speaker 1: is held in the square, a slow celebration of the
Speaker 1: peculiar pottery, local cheeses, and naturally clocks replica timepieces, sun
Speaker 1: dials to brass our glass that wanders from table to table.
Speaker 1: Children delight in a friendly race to see who can
Speaker 1: make the most clocks chime at once, an event whose
Speaker 1: ownly outcome is noise and general confusion. No one remembers
Speaker 1: quite why we began. The fair or White revolves, like
Speaker 1: so much else around time, in its unreliable keeping. The
Speaker 1: town perhaps is most at home in these tiny uncertainties.
Speaker 1: The cisk callum the societies long time stewart gently charges
Speaker 1: anyone who fusses over a phantom foot bass. They are
Speaker 1: always coming and going. She'll say, bess you accept it
Speaker 1: and get on. Alfy who owns the pop likes to
Speaker 1: collect the autel salaways that sprout a few feet one
Speaker 1: way or another, deeds that don't match the ground's reality.
Speaker 1: Architect dre even half mad by moving property lines. Everyone
Speaker 1: takes it in stride. There are bigger things to worry
Speaker 1: about than allies and maps. But to me someone whose
Speaker 1: pride is staked on knowing every doorstep. I could not
Speaker 1: let it go. Paplin Lane itched in my mind as
Speaker 1: I went about the day. I ran errands, ducked into
Speaker 1: the musicians, stopped at Missus Darrow's to fetch a tartful later.
Speaker 1: All the while the question hung about had I missed
Speaker 1: something or did the town conspire in small ways to
Speaker 1: cover its own tracks. I started by asking Missus Darrow herself.
Speaker 1: She's lived here nearly eighty years, has an eagle's memory
Speaker 1: for small changes, and an appetite for alarming details in
Speaker 1: local law. She was wrapping up pristole when I asked,
Speaker 1: casual as I could, whether she recalled Papulin Lane anywhere
Speaker 1: near the clockmaker's place. She paused, lipped burs hand, stilling
Speaker 1: over the tart box. Well, Paplin, she mused, never quite
Speaker 1: in the same spot. I suppose best shortcut in town
Speaker 1: when it fancied co operating trema endously convenient, though you'd
Speaker 1: lose it again if you blink. Haven't thought of it
Speaker 1: in years? Why is it back? Her eyes brightened with
Speaker 1: the sword of mischief that in Missess Darrow often prefaces
Speaker 1: a tall tale. The straightforwardness of her aunts had caught
Speaker 1: me off guard. I meant the question as rhetorical. You
Speaker 1: mean it moved, I pressed, trying not to sound as
Speaker 1: skeptical as I felt. Oh certainly had a mind of
Speaker 1: its own, but always useful if you could find it.
Speaker 1: I left her to her packing, unsettled. The librarian, Missess Callum,
Speaker 1: was no less enigmatic when I found her arranging books
Speaker 1: in the reference room. Baple and Lane, we don't have
Speaker 1: much recorded, she said, thumbing absentndedly through an index card.
Speaker 1: Forte mention it now and then seems to pop up
Speaker 1: at odd times, especially for those who need a shirk.
Speaker 1: I'll check the ledges, but it's not on any of
Speaker 1: my reliable maps. Curiosity gnawed harder at the pop I
Speaker 1: tracked down offy forty thick fore arms, an easy laugh
Speaker 1: not given to Fancy, who always enjoyed debunking the more
Speaker 1: outlandish town myths. He frowned a little when I asked,
Speaker 1: Paple and Lane E if it ever existed? It doesn't
Speaker 1: now kids run up looking for it for dares. Just
Speaker 1: find a brick wall and some Walton capmen. He waved
Speaker 1: the hand. Town's got more vanished busin standing once. If
Speaker 1: he count up the old stories still people want to believe.
Speaker 1: I thanked him, my skepticism bending but not quite breaking
Speaker 1: under the weight of such casual contradiction. Back at home,
Speaker 1: I rifled through my own shelves about or to West
Speaker 1: map from the sixties, my Bible for local deliveries, and
Speaker 1: a reproduction Victorian survey purchased from the Historical Society. I
Speaker 1: laid these side by side with my memori's map and
Speaker 1: the ancient hand drawn when I'd returned that morning. On
Speaker 1: both the official maps, the street in question didn't exist.
Speaker 1: All other rows match perfectly, but where papal and Lane
Speaker 1: should have been nothing, just the blank spam between Minton's
Speaker 1: and the workshop, not even the faint suggestion of a
Speaker 1: foot bath. Sheer precision of the omission gnawed at me.
Speaker 1: The old map wasn't simply ancient. It was explicitly at
Speaker 1: odds with every known wrecker. I was just about ready
Speaker 1: to chalk it up to local eccentricity, affiction nested within
Speaker 1: the slow memory of stones. When I glanced at the
Speaker 1: hand draw map again by the lamplight. At first glanced
Speaker 1: papal and Lane as exactly as before, curling a soft arc,
Speaker 1: linking two familiar streets. But as I paved closer, something
Speaker 1: had shifted the lanes. Entry point on the western edge
Speaker 1: now pointed to the back door of the clockmaker's shop,
Speaker 1: not the garden gate by Minton's. The eastern end, previously
Speaker 1: overlaying the book shop, now strayed Hair's bread north, seemingly
Speaker 1: connecting to a sliver of walled garden, never reference on
Speaker 1: any other diagram. The change wasn't dramatic, but it was unmistakable.
Speaker 1: I compared where I traced my finger not twelve hours before.
Speaker 1: The difference was real. I tried telling myself I'd misread it,
Speaker 1: or maybe the map sink had faded unevenly. Yet the
Speaker 1: rest of the map was as clear and as unyielding
Speaker 1: as before. Maybe paper settles, I thought, maybe my brain does.
Speaker 1: But instead of feeling tricked, I was absurdly invigorated. I
Speaker 1: wanted to know which reality was bending. That night, I
Speaker 1: slept lightly, half dreaming of inclines that wavered and blinked
Speaker 1: out between the houses. By next morning, my curiosity was
Speaker 1: boiling over. Rather than following my usual harbor route, I
Speaker 1: tucked both maps, ancient and official, into my shoulder back
Speaker 1: and set off on a systematic test. My palm was
Speaker 1: half logic, half ritual. Were trace everywhere it marked on
Speaker 1: both maps. Note every difference. See if papal and Lane
Speaker 1: was alone aberration or only the most conspicuous little differences
Speaker 1: abounded if you look close enough. A corner shop marked
Speaker 1: the beffery in the old script was on my map,
Speaker 1: and in reality, though belfry a shop winter rendered as
Speaker 1: a cheerful square of lace curtains in the old map
Speaker 1: was nowadays he breked over rectangle, dubbed and feeded blue
Speaker 1: on the coockmaker's shop itself. The old map shored a
Speaker 1: side door opening onto a small flag yard. No such
Speaker 1: door existed to day, but there were Telldale scars in
Speaker 1: the brockwrook, half sunk by the passage of time. I
Speaker 1: took notes, feeling less sure of each step. Was it
Speaker 1: the town that changed, or just the way we bother
Speaker 1: to remember it? The library became my next stop. Miss
Speaker 1: s Callum, now it's gone by small forests of statued
Speaker 1: registry books greeted me with a mug of strong tea.
Speaker 1: Did you find anything about Papouline, I asked, waven The
Speaker 1: old map, she smiled, far away. Not much in the
Speaker 1: official books, though, Come to think of it, I remember
Speaker 1: slipping through a little lane behind the workshop once. It
Speaker 1: was years ago during the clock fare after the rain.
Speaker 1: The alley was narrower than it should have been, almost
Speaker 1: a tunnel. Eno led out near Minton's. But the next
Speaker 1: year I could never find the entrance again. She tapped
Speaker 1: her temple. Maybe I dreamed it, or maybe it didn't
Speaker 1: want to be found. Parentzo left a warm, half melancholy,
Speaker 1: half delight. I tried a different tack with Alfy at
Speaker 1: the pub. He was restocking the glasses, but let me
Speaker 1: tuck him aside. He ever found that lane yourself? I pressed,
Speaker 1: less hopeful than before. He grimaced, searching his memory, not
Speaker 1: sober at any rate, he allah, I've heard it'll sometimes
Speaker 1: shortcid the round about, mostly at night. Tell you what,
Speaker 1: there's something odd about the clock chimes. When the towers
Speaker 1: are out of sink places you think you know you'll
Speaker 1: go straight through and wind up at the harbor instead
Speaker 1: of the square. Never bothered much with worrying about it. Mine,
Speaker 1: so long as you get where you're headed. I thanked him, and,
Speaker 1: feeling almost giddy, resolved to map, at my own memory,
Speaker 1: name every lane and twist each shop as I knew it. Day,
Speaker 1: I sat at my table with pencil and paper, sketching
Speaker 1: from rical alone. Even as I bore down on the details,
Speaker 1: I found myself second guessing. Had the clockmaker shop always
Speaker 1: had that tall Chinni stack? Why did I remember a
Speaker 1: green shutter where none currently existed? The shop at the
Speaker 1: lanes then seemed to flicker through three names in my mind,
Speaker 1: and none quite settling before the next assertion took shape.
Speaker 1: The next phase of inquiry led me deeper into the archives.
Speaker 1: I poured over census records, street directories, minutes of council meetings.
Speaker 1: Papulin Lane featured fitfully, frustratingly in only a handful of
Speaker 1: early directories. Sometimes brassley announced of Papulin's walk from Greaves
Speaker 1: to Orange Yard, other times entirely absent. In one registry,
Speaker 1: the lane was footnoted as formerly Papalin's walker place. It
Speaker 1: seemed perpetually halfway between existing and ceasing to be. The
Speaker 1: next morning, before the shops had set out their signs,
Speaker 1: I walked to the supposed mouth of Papallin Lane at dawn,
Speaker 1: retracing the old map's destructions. Cold mis culled round my
Speaker 1: feet ere bright with birds, and for just a moment,
Speaker 1: after ducking behind the clockmaker's hulk of a building, I
Speaker 1: found the slight gap in the tangled brambles, a thin,
Speaker 1: mossy path, pressed just wide enough for a person, and
Speaker 1: exactly a sketch in the old cauthographer's confident hand. I
Speaker 1: darted forward, dodging down leaves in an empty bottle. The
Speaker 1: path ran twelve steps before dissolving into a bank of
Speaker 1: thorny bushes. The faint impression of flagstones ending in a
Speaker 1: jumble of violets. Something about the shape the way a
Speaker 1: light cut across the stones was compelling, if familiar. Just
Speaker 1: for that moment, I was walking a street I'd always known.
Speaker 1: Before I could go further, the way was blought to overgrown, certainly,
Speaker 1: yet not impassable for centuries. I pressed my hand to
Speaker 1: the stone wall. The ridges lined up exactly, not with
Speaker 1: to day street, but with the one from the ancient sketch.
Speaker 1: No sooner had I found it than it slept away.
Speaker 1: The next day I checked again at the same hour.
Speaker 1: There was nothing now, just a wall, neat and solid,
Speaker 1: had just crispy, clicked, as if no one had ever
Speaker 1: trod between them. No sign of the passes, save perhaps
Speaker 1: or with something faintly floral, stubbornly out of season. As
Speaker 1: I puzzled, a pattern began to emerge. No two people
Speaker 1: recall papal and lay in the same way, but nearly
Speaker 1: everyone had an anecdote. No two maps agreed. Even my
Speaker 1: own habit bound mind found itself reordering shop fronts, as
Speaker 1: if by sleight of hand, their phantom lane refused to
Speaker 1: be fixed, not in space or time, not in memory
Speaker 1: or in ink. At first I thought the map was
Speaker 1: simply outdated or relicant, suitable for modern feet. Then I
Speaker 1: suspected at the town had outgrown it, paved over its oddments.
Speaker 1: But no, the contradictions ran deeper, wider. Some part of
Speaker 1: the place, not just its documentation, resisted being pinned down.
Speaker 1: I began to wonder, improbable, as it seemed, whether the
Speaker 1: map itself was settling like the old bones of the town,
Speaker 1: or whether it was participating in its own quiet mischief,
Speaker 1: waiting to reveal new shapes to a sufficiently attentive hand.
Speaker 1: One an evening, as I revisited the map, I noticed
Speaker 1: the delicate, unfamiliar scent, once more like crushed violets, mingled
Speaker 1: with something lighter, almost citrus, always near the supposed entrance
Speaker 1: to Paplain Lane, never elsewhere. The people of the town,
Speaker 1: for all their tolerance of such mysteries, were not immune
Speaker 1: to curiosity about shifting geography. Yet there was something resigned,
Speaker 1: even proud in their acceptance, as if their wandering of
Speaker 1: streets and alas was not a flaw but a private tradition,
Speaker 1: a game played by place and people alike. This was
Speaker 1: no longer a question of finding a lost shortcut. The
Speaker 1: contradiction had expanded, not a missing lane, but a whole
Speaker 1: system of subtle shifting geography, a map that did not
Speaker 1: just record, but participated in the ambiguity of what was real.
Speaker 1: I walked that evening for longer than usual, winding my
Speaker 1: way past the old own workshop. On a whim, I stopped,
Speaker 1: press my palm to the cold warp boats covering its door.
Speaker 1: I could hear clocks within, faint at first, but then
Speaker 1: unmistakably a soft course of ticking, as if dozens of
Speaker 1: time pieces struggled in rugged unison. The building had always
Speaker 1: drun me for reasons. I couldn't say. But now, with
Speaker 1: papple and lane looping about its foundations on the ancient
Speaker 1: map again with a new bold, a flickering to night,
Speaker 1: was that my imagination? I wondered whether their own shop
Speaker 1: was not merely the end of the old passage, but
Speaker 1: a kind of keeper of the town's shifting ways, the clocks,
Speaker 1: the maps, the memory of a lane every one remembers differently.
Speaker 1: Perhaps these were for its in the same tangle's gain.
Speaker 1: Next morning, as the square and compass wok itself with
Speaker 1: the clatter of pine glasses, I stopped by once more.
Speaker 1: Pob's windows had that misted clothed they get before noon,
Speaker 1: and Afy was still arranging chairs. He knotted me in.
Speaker 1: I perched on my usual spot by the corner window.
Speaker 1: Tell me something, Alfy, I said, quietly. If a street
Speaker 1: could move, how would you know, Not from a map,
Speaker 1: not from walking, Its just as a feeling. He grinned.
Speaker 1: That would be the onlog. Wouldn't it use to say
Speaker 1: the town was built atop an old web, not at
Speaker 1: tight in one place, loose in another. He chases own
Speaker 1: tail round the block with the knee map every week.
Speaker 1: I suppose a moving street would feel like deja vu,
Speaker 1: you find yourself somewhere you went expecting, not lost, just
Speaker 1: were routed. I thought about this as I walked the
Speaker 1: block maps in my pocket, feed it ching for evidence.
Speaker 1: I resolved then to speak to Miss s Calum again,
Speaker 1: this time invoking my right as a member of the
Speaker 1: historical society to put my nose where it oughtn't. With
Speaker 1: her blessing and a heavy old key in my hand,
Speaker 1: I made my way to the own workshop late that afternoon.
Speaker 1: Inside the dust was sweet and pervasive, the kind that
Speaker 1: seeps into your clothes and makes his knees even as
Speaker 1: you marvel. There were clocks dozens, no hundred if you
Speaker 1: counted every size and shape. They covered the walls, the mantles,
Speaker 1: even hung from nails in the rafters, most set to
Speaker 1: slightly different times. The collection made for racket. Some TICKSI
Speaker 1: and shop, other slow and measured. Many stopped at fright
Speaker 1: at times that made no local sense. Eleven fifty three, two,
Speaker 1: eleven ten nine, and so on. A map of minutes
Speaker 1: arranged without logic on a wide back wall. I found
Speaker 1: what I'd been hoping for and fearing, an array of
Speaker 1: old maps all off the town. Each subtly different. Here
Speaker 1: papal And Lane was present. There can in another loop,
Speaker 1: big and impossibly round, as though circumnavigating the entire Western
Speaker 1: quarridor the name shifted two papal And Lane, Paplin's walk
Speaker 1: even butterfly path. In one bizarre instance, and yet one
Speaker 1: map fresher than the others, had the date of to
Speaker 1: day inscribed in a careful contemporary hand. Mounted on shells.
Speaker 1: Beneath were blueprints labeled with a cane terms temporal balance,
Speaker 1: a special register momentary axes eastern, where it keeped pattern
Speaker 1: but allow for drift. There were unfinished drawings, clocks depicted
Speaker 1: not just as mechanisms, but as parts of tiny networks.
Speaker 1: A visitor is lobically cracked and listing on a worktop.
Speaker 1: Its page filled with visitors signatures, none known to me,
Speaker 1: and some in a slanting fratchud SCRIPTA could not decipher.
Speaker 1: The caretaker, mister Pumphrey, broad chested and unhurried, wandered in
Speaker 1: his explored He regarded the chaos as one would an
Speaker 1: overgrown garden. They say you should never trust this lot,
Speaker 1: he remarked. Jerky a thumb at the clocks. Never write
Speaker 1: for every one, but they keep the place on as
Speaker 1: if honest the word. Do you ever change them? I asked,
Speaker 1: headful of the tik tok Medley. That's the trick, isn't
Speaker 1: it change enough? In someone complaints, don't, and they drift
Speaker 1: by themselves. He peered at the maps, selecting one of
Speaker 1: the frown. Builders and surveyors have been much fixed by these.
Speaker 1: No two agree, and none match how the ground feels.
Speaker 1: The more you look, the more it seems only confusion
Speaker 1: has any fidelity, he smiles. Patient with my confusion, I
Speaker 1: opened my mouth, but before I could ask further, a
Speaker 1: faint chime rang out from above a boll not set
Speaker 1: to the hour. I looked toward the ceiling. Sure enough,
Speaker 1: as skylight filtered in ghostly afternoon sun. It seemed clear
Speaker 1: to me abruptly that the clocks, the irregularity of their keepings,
Speaker 1: and this proliferation of maps all co existed as one
Speaker 1: tangled cause, the persistent ambiguity of streets like Paplin Lane.
Speaker 1: The town didn't hate certainty, it simply failed to recognize
Speaker 1: it as a virtue. On my way out, I saw
Speaker 1: the latest map again and realized something chillingly wonderful. It
Speaker 1: was fresh some one still tendered. These boundaries drew, and
Speaker 1: we drew the lines. Determined to gather more than anecdotes,
Speaker 1: I set about finding those who claim to no papal
Speaker 1: in lane firsthand. The seer Starrow called upon that her
Speaker 1: kitchen table with a fresh baked seed cake, recounted only
Speaker 1: found it the once mind, after hearing this odd chime
Speaker 1: from the tower, sweeter than the usual, clanger slipped into
Speaker 1: the lane like a fellow landing on water. Mister Orn
Speaker 1: himself said when I asked him, the Tan moves on occasion,
Speaker 1: keeps things fresh. Otherwise we'd all be bored Sully. I
Speaker 1: met with Harry Kell's, a retired builder whose face was
Speaker 1: lying as the stone lintils he once fitted. He grunted
Speaker 1: any deed or permit touching that places a headache. Lawyers
Speaker 1: can't square the numbers, surveys can match their plans. I
Speaker 1: gave up trying to beat the hedge back grows faster
Speaker 1: than brambles. Tan Cancel gave up drawing hard lines years ago,
Speaker 1: and yet armed with all this new wisdom, I retraced
Speaker 1: the route one late afternoon, guided by strange resolve. As
Speaker 1: the light stretched gold along the rooftops. The bell towers
Speaker 1: began the cacophony, three clocks lightly out of fase Chan's,
Speaker 1: tumbling over at each other in waves of half familiar
Speaker 1: melody for no obvious reason. As I rounded the alley
Speaker 1: past the clock maker's shop, the airth thinned, almost lighter,
Speaker 1: like the brink of a summer storm. I found myself
Speaker 1: suddenly and without warning, standing on cobbles i'd never draw,
Speaker 1: bright and oddly pristine, with the old wrought arches of
Speaker 1: papl And Lane overhead, each side crowned by the cartographer's
Speaker 1: ink butterflies. The air smelt of violets and lemon verbina,
Speaker 1: and I heard my own heart palls elased only step
Speaker 1: or two. As soon as I, folks blinked, reached for
Speaker 1: the edge of the experience, the lane was gone again,
Speaker 1: collapsed into a small walled orchard, the pat muddled under
Speaker 1: leaves and the drizzle of unfamiliar blossom. But for those steps,
Speaker 1: I was wholly somewhere else, somewhere mapped yet still unplaceable.
Speaker 1: Back home, I checked the map. Papal And Lane's line
Speaker 1: was bold and proud to night, in points marked at
Speaker 1: the exact spot where I crossed the impossible threshold the
Speaker 1: caligraphy was, I felt just a little thicker, a little
Speaker 1: more insistent. I sat quietly, letting the facts and contradictions
Speaker 1: settle Thore was by now no chance of settling the
Speaker 1: answer by brushing up my memory or scrutinizing old maps.
Speaker 1: The answer wasn't written in the lines. It flickered in
Speaker 1: the communal understanding, for perhaps acceptance of uncertainty. This place,
Speaker 1: my home, was one where the boundaries between map certainty
Speaker 1: and live experience wriggled too often to permit easy truth.
Speaker 1: What mattered was not the fixes of streets, but the
Speaker 1: wiliness by resident and record alike to let something stay beautifully.
Speaker 1: For now I knew only this. The town was not
Speaker 1: to be solved by walking every street, nor by fixing
Speaker 1: it in inch. The real question wasn't where papal and
Speaker 1: Lane could be found, but why it was ever permitted,
Speaker 1: by tradition, by habit by a kind of gentle Camino
Speaker 1: consented to drift at all. Somewhere between the tick of
Speaker 1: the clocks and the dreams of map makers, the shape
Speaker 1: of the town lingered, shifting, never quite pinned. The next morning,
Speaker 1: I woke with remnants of violets and them and verbena
Speaker 1: clinging to my palms more sensation than scent my legs.
Speaker 1: Itche to retrace that flickering passage, but instinct warned me
Speaker 1: against chas and goris the same way twice. Instead, I
Speaker 1: found myself lingering over tea at my narrow kitchen window,
Speaker 1: watching the Dosy market shake itself open. Below ordinary things,
Speaker 1: the rumble of mister Llewellyn's fish cart, the uneven sweep
Speaker 1: of brooms. Church bells dithering toward the hour seemed slightly askew.
Speaker 1: Every face that past felt complicit in the puzzle, whether
Speaker 1: knowingly or not. I wondered at a kragmaex how many
Speaker 1: others work within law of almost familiar streets, twining through
Speaker 1: their minds. A knock at the door startled me from
Speaker 1: my thoughts. It was Miss s Callum, red cheeked from
Speaker 1: the wind, and and her usual tartan came to bring
Speaker 1: your log book back, she said, holding out a thin
Speaker 1: leather bound volume I had lent herm months earlier, filled
Speaker 1: with the addresses and side notes that only a postman
Speaker 1: could decipher, And to ask if you'd care to walk
Speaker 1: me round to the library this morning, I feel a
Speaker 1: draft in my bones. Thought the company would do something.
Speaker 1: In Her tone made it clear this was not solely
Speaker 1: about the weather nor friendship. She needed reassurance, or perhaps confirmation.
Speaker 1: On our way beneath the hanging awnings and the shivering
Speaker 1: sound of gulls. I shared my most recent brush with
Speaker 1: Papalin Lane. Her eyes brightened, the lidspursed some mornings. I
Speaker 1: think the whole town is a warren. Dug out of
Speaker 1: memory and hope, she said lightly. Did you know every
Speaker 1: generation we redraw the library map? Children demand it. Three
Speaker 1: years ago they insisted there ought to be a secret
Speaker 1: room above the archives. Now we keep a broom closet
Speaker 1: up there, and half of them swear they remember reading
Speaker 1: in it. Inside the library's warmth, the wall felt briefly
Speaker 1: solid again. But as I turned over her words, memory
Speaker 1: and hope, a room that grows by insistence, I realized
Speaker 1: we were no nearest stabilizing this place than ever. Yet
Speaker 1: the calm was curiously consoling, as if the mystery and
Speaker 1: threatening gave structure to our wandering days. After helping to
Speaker 1: share the few unruly tomes, I set off in search
Speaker 1: of more concrete disturbances. The first Clee was small, but
Speaker 1: caught my eye on a leaflet for the upcoming clock
Speaker 1: fail left in the post office festibule. The address for
Speaker 1: the event shifted between Printing's Market Square in one one's
Speaker 1: Greened in another, once even Paplan Crescent, though no such
Speaker 1: road officially existed. The prickle of mischief threaded through everything, names, directions,
Speaker 1: the tenor of local chatter, and it was not just
Speaker 1: a private matter. When I met doctor Averel outside atoll
Speaker 1: disheveled man previously introduced as a historical geographer from the university,
Speaker 1: he gestured at the leaflet and smiled. Do you realize,
Speaker 1: he said, that this is the only English town with
Speaker 1: the mapping authority file equivalent to Rush and Nesting Doll.
Speaker 1: I've been sent here for us each time a new
Speaker 1: map a new set of street names. There's talk among
Speaker 1: my colleagues of shifting layer towns, but you always is
Speaker 1: the best document example we have. He guided me into
Speaker 1: the square and compass over the protest of Alvi, whose
Speaker 1: patience with the visiting intellectuals. Rant in Averil explained, your
Speaker 1: town appears in exceptional articles noted for its in aligned layer,
Speaker 1: creative notations, vanishing streets, some claim your urban boundaries can't
Speaker 1: be walke the same way ties. Apparently even the Ordnance
Speaker 1: Survey as a box for local reality variations, Seafield notes,
Speaker 1: absurd but delightful. I poured us both the stadt and asked,
Speaker 1: half jerking, whether he'd ever seen Paplin Lane. He brightened peculiarly, yes,
Speaker 1: though not the way you might think. During the festival
Speaker 1: last year, a trio of us took a short cut
Speaker 1: that shouldn't have connected, yet it did for a few minutes.
Speaker 1: We disagreed afterward whether we turned at the bakery or
Speaker 1: the milliner's, but all remembered butterflies painted on a wall.
Speaker 1: The phenomena a dear to local folklore, but also noticed
Speaker 1: further afield among certa circles. His satisfaction only increased my
Speaker 1: age to dig. If some many notice, why hasn't anyone
Speaker 1: properly mapped it, he only grinned. Perhaps mapping is more
Speaker 1: pretense than capture. You cannot record a song by kneeling
Speaker 1: it to the wall. In the face of institutional ambiguity,
Speaker 1: I decided to look backwards to the person at the
Speaker 1: heart of all this mysterious fog or in the clockmaker.
Speaker 1: I spent the after the controlling the archives in the
Speaker 1: library loft, blotting dust from ledgers, and squinting at photographs.
Speaker 1: Here and there fragments emerged. An old article in the
Speaker 1: back of the chronicle celebrated mister Horace Horne, he who
Speaker 1: keeps our town ticking along, and noted with some admiration
Speaker 1: his talent for designing clocks, never late, never quite on time.
Speaker 1: He was credited as much for turning up at a
Speaker 1: neighbor's broken hedges for repairing time pieces. A grainy photograph
Speaker 1: showed Awn smiling from the entrance of his workshop over
Speaker 1: shirts kewe, a bristling set of keys at his belt
Speaker 1: behind him. The shop from time mistakably the same as now,
Speaker 1: but the sign in the window Paplin's walk this way
Speaker 1: visible only in the faintests of script. Elsewhere I turned
Speaker 1: up festival announcements withered and brittle. The lost quarter. Our
Speaker 1: parade will commence by Orn's Green at the first chiming
Speaker 1: of the out of teen bell. Another clipping described the
Speaker 1: parade of Phantom Lane's children carry paper butterflies. All dollarways
Speaker 1: opened themselves for the evening. How had whole events vanished
Speaker 1: from living memory? Why preserve only their markus, clocks, names, stories,
Speaker 1: letting the actual customs slip beneath the surface, no closing.
Speaker 1: I caught up with mister Pumphrey locking up the old workshop.
Speaker 1: I pressed him for memories of Orne in the drifting lane.
Speaker 1: He hesitated, then led me inside, as the last rays
Speaker 1: slanted through the dust, where the clock still argued amongst
Speaker 1: themselves or he said was a fixture. Swore everything depended
Speaker 1: on attention. Always said places keep a steady as their keepers.
Speaker 1: He twned every clock and here together, but only on
Speaker 1: special evenings most days let him drift. Said it was
Speaker 1: good for the town when the clock chimed in perfect harmony,
Speaker 1: which was rare. Odd things would happen outside. I never
Speaker 1: sold the purpose myself, but old Orn said the town
Speaker 1: liked a bit of uncertainty, start the place from going brittle.
Speaker 1: He rummaged in a batter drawer, prodded out a folded
Speaker 1: time to bele filled with crossed out entries. That's his
Speaker 1: schedule for the clocks. He won't find a rational pattern
Speaker 1: to it, but if he could, he'd align them all
Speaker 1: at the lost quarter hour. I studied the page every
Speaker 1: quarter past or quarter two was delicately bracketed, ringed with
Speaker 1: butterfly shapes at the very bottom. Scrawled in another hand,
Speaker 1: it reed synchronized only when the town demands holding. Otherwise
Speaker 1: left drift, All lanes are possible for those that need them.
Speaker 1: Outside evening had come the low Skuy, bruised and bristling
Speaker 1: with gulls. I walked home, thinking about what it meant
Speaker 1: to hold the town, to keep it just steady enough
Speaker 1: and no more. The alignment of clocks, the rituals around
Speaker 1: the law elst our stories told of forgotten none just record,
Speaker 1: but participate actively in determining the place's very shape. Over
Speaker 1: the next days, curiosity took hold of me like hunger.
Speaker 1: I set up small meetings with children at the school,
Speaker 1: Missus Darrow's circle, at Market, visiting family from across the county,
Speaker 1: old colleagues for my postal ramps. I asked them not
Speaker 1: just about Papellin Lane, but about any shortcut that wasn't
Speaker 1: always there, any street whose name had changed in their lifetimes.
Speaker 1: Patterns emerged, and with them contradictions. Older folk like Missess
Speaker 1: Darrow gave me wistful, meandering stories. When I was small,
Speaker 1: you dash right behind the soap works, and if you
Speaker 1: timed it with the belt, slipped through to the cricket ground.
Speaker 1: But the next week ye be fenced in, never minded much.
Speaker 1: If you needed to be somewhere, usually the road found you.
Speaker 1: A trio of jon school children, delighted in describing their
Speaker 1: own butterfly runs. There were bets about who could find
Speaker 1: the hint door to paple and Lane. You have to
Speaker 1: take free skips, then say the clock rammed. When I
Speaker 1: showed them the maps, they amended my notes in a
Speaker 1: chaotic flurry, looping new allys around their favorite shops and
Speaker 1: where adamant the sweet shops stood exactly where Papellin mets
Speaker 1: Salt Lane, though no such shop was there in my memory.
Speaker 1: Later that week I stayed late with Missess Callum and
Speaker 1: Doctor Averell. We gathered up as many oddballs as would
Speaker 1: join us, seven in all, including Alfrey, Missess Darrow, Tom
Speaker 1: with his selectiitious rules, and the children bright eyed at
Speaker 1: the prospect of an evening adventure. We entered the clockmaker's
Speaker 1: workshop unset pages and half wind clocks, giving off a
Speaker 1: delicate cacophony. I had the group synchronized the clocks, consulting
Speaker 1: on schedule all hands aimed stubbornly at the quarter hour.
Speaker 1: Let's try and experiment, Avrel said, each of us thinks,
Speaker 1: as clearly as we can, of papallin lane, where it
Speaker 1: comes out? Whose waiting? What it smells like? The cobbles
Speaker 1: underfo we did for a moment as the clocks clicked together.
Speaker 1: There was a weird tash, like colding one's breath before
Speaker 1: a bell peel and furls. I felt the floor under
Speaker 1: me seemed to tilt slightly, as if the building or
Speaker 1: the town was shifting position. When we left, we compared
Speaker 1: the results. Massess Arrows wre she emerged outside the bakery.
Speaker 1: Massess Callum found herself by the churchyard Tom at the fishmonger's.
Speaker 1: The children split their vote between the harbor gate and
Speaker 1: an entirely fabricated papal arcade. Only Alfy, skeptical, insisted he'd
Speaker 1: seen nothing but walls and weeds. Yet the accounts were
Speaker 1: told with such certitude, with new names for doorways, descriptions
Speaker 1: of hedges, the tang of violets, one would be forgiven
Speaker 1: for believing several lanes had boded into being that evening alone.
Speaker 1: Averil shook his head, scribbling rapidly. It seems the more
Speaker 1: we agree, the more reality tilts accommodate. But consensus is
Speaker 1: ever a louse of each person's need and story in
Speaker 1: its its own. Peace into the town. That notion struck sharply.
Speaker 1: What if the town shape was not sanctioned from above,
Speaker 1: like a plan handed down, but was constantly we negotiated,
Speaker 1: each memory, each expectation, each official attempt at fixing it,
Speaker 1: contributing to its gentle drift. Over the following days, I
Speaker 1: noticed a change in my own memory. Details previously iron
Speaker 1: cloud became with reflection, softly ambiguous. Was it Grieves Aliy
Speaker 1: or Salt Lane that cut behind the market? Had the
Speaker 1: post office's read fasought always been so hadden'ed at once
Speaker 1: long ago been green? People peppered our conversations with little corrections,
Speaker 1: casual as rain. Oh. I always thought that was the
Speaker 1: way to papallin lane, even when evidence said otherwise. I
Speaker 1: decided to pushed the experiment further, to try to tip
Speaker 1: the balance. Walking the town with people freshly attuned to
Speaker 1: a shared memory, clock synchronized maps in hand, mister Pomfrey
Speaker 1: let me Observersey in the old Clockmaker's Apprentice mister Barris stooped,
Speaker 1: shaking slightly, but as laser Bright worked their intricate ritual.
Speaker 1: They wound a great clock on the wall, then moved
Speaker 1: from time piece to time piece, quietly aligning the small
Speaker 1: brass hands with each tick, settling toward unity. The sharp
Speaker 1: seemed to ebb and flow, as if breathing at sie.
Speaker 1: I watched as light pulled differently along the ridges. Familiar
Speaker 1: alice felt subtly altered, edges, brighter, shadows, less certain, the
Speaker 1: possibility of other routs trembling just at the periphery. When
Speaker 1: the clock struck the quarter hour as once, mister Barris
Speaker 1: turned to me and said, gently, that's when most slopops happen,
Speaker 1: if the clocks are too close in their keeping. The
Speaker 1: ten tries to make it self coherent. Streets pop and
Speaker 1: where people expect them, based on whatever feels most true
Speaker 1: in the moment, sometimes the old, sometimes the new, sometimes
Speaker 1: pure invention. He looked rueful, allet always worn. It's good
Speaker 1: for places to breathe. If you pin it tight, it
Speaker 1: grows brutal. It was not about losing one's way, but
Speaker 1: creating staining and openness, possibility, an accommodation between people, memory
Speaker 1: and ground. A few days later, doctor Averell invited me
Speaker 1: to inspect a so called master map, held in trusted
Speaker 1: to regional archives and rarely brought home to town. We
Speaker 1: unfolded it on the Ciscallum's long table, a palimpsyst of lines,
Speaker 1: colors bleeding into one another, with myriad streets overlaid, impelling
Speaker 1: thicker lines for the most common agreed route paler for
Speaker 1: this fading from use haplain lane weaved in and out
Speaker 1: as a ghostly arc, sometimes stopping short, sometimes looping grandly.
Speaker 1: Annotations commented first seen eighteen seventy three, last recorded nineteen
Speaker 1: forty eight in one quadron, but in another major thoroughfare
Speaker 1: nineteen sixty two children's games Averro tapped the flurry of
Speaker 1: notes at the map's edge. At a town in negotiation, no.
Speaker 1: Two field surveyors submitted identical diagrams when officials try to
Speaker 1: regularize the town nnzos with contradictions. At his invitation, a
Speaker 1: regional surveyor a mess Featherstone, Sturdy and Brisque, gave her
Speaker 1: own account. It's infamous O town. We draw up official
Speaker 1: maps more often than any other parish, and not one
Speaker 1: sticks for long new maps d of the day they published.
Speaker 1: We used to think with sloppy building or old deeds
Speaker 1: run amock, But after so many years, I think the
Speaker 1: place prefers uncertainty. I sense the folks here due to
Speaker 1: the like having a shortcut pop up the day you
Speaker 1: need it, she winked. I envy it herby the rest
Speaker 1: of us have nothing but straight roads and bureaucrats. I
Speaker 1: sat bemused, turning over the uncanny possibility that where enough
Speaker 1: people remember were memory and need converge, the world quietly
Speaker 1: rearranges itself. A spring deepened. I found myself restless, more
Speaker 1: observant of the ways residents described home and passage, children's games,
Speaker 1: old watched tales, the pave routes of festivals to fund
Speaker 1: for decades, all explicitly or not contributed to the town's slow,
Speaker 1: responsive shifting. Yet even I, grounded by years of physical
Speaker 1: labor and habit, felt memory uncertaintly loosening their grip. Familiar
Speaker 1: streets acquired new inflections. Places I'd sworn on my postal
Speaker 1: reputation existed only so so began to shimmer true but
Speaker 1: not exclusive in their truth. One evening, as a new
Speaker 1: mean press shadows closer, I invited every friend and neighbor
Speaker 1: curious enough to gather at the Clockmaker's workshop for what
Speaker 1: I imagined would be a final collective experiment. Mister Barrister
Speaker 1: delicately set the clocks into course. Missess Callum led us
Speaker 1: through the festival rhyme of the Lost quarter Hour, the
Speaker 1: children eyes wide, pressed paper, butterflies in tur palms. I
Speaker 1: explained to Night. We try not just to find papal
Speaker 1: and Lane, but to see what it means to us
Speaker 1: individually together, to remember and to map not just the ground,
Speaker 1: but the ways we find and keep our bearings. At
Speaker 1: the moment the clocks aligned, a subtle shift ran through
Speaker 1: the room, so slight it could be nerves or imagination,
Speaker 1: but it fell in my skin and bones wholly reel.
Speaker 1: We led each other out onto the street to the
Speaker 1: watching whirl. Nothing changed, but among us paths seemed to
Speaker 1: part and rejoin. Some reached the market gate, others the
Speaker 1: garden behind Minden's still, others the harbor were the slope torchard.
Speaker 1: For each papall and Lane appeared, if only for a
Speaker 1: flicker of steps, as they most needed or remembered it.
Speaker 1: Back in the workshop, weighed by exhilaration and exhaustion. We
Speaker 1: compared notes. The consensus was not that Papal and Lane
Speaker 1: existed in any one place. Rather, we agreed its reappearance
Speaker 1: was as much a gesture of collective need a mutual
Speaker 1: memory is of stone and mortar. Whenever the clocks brought
Speaker 1: us into a delicate alignment set not always at twill,
Speaker 1: the town responded to the tenor of our longing memory
Speaker 1: and habit, making room for what we had to believe,
Speaker 1: for just a moment was possible. That was the realization,
Speaker 1: as strong and clear as any fact I delivered in
Speaker 1: decades of rounds. Our town's map was a living arrangement,
Speaker 1: bounded not by ink, but by the subtler lines of
Speaker 1: human need and expectation. Pablo and Lane and others like
Speaker 1: its surface were the desire for connection, for shortcut, for
Speaker 1: surprise or solace, pressed enough that the world gave way
Speaker 1: just a little. The clocks, the rituals, the festivals, even
Speaker 1: their gradual forgetting, were not accidents, but chosen, enduring customs
Speaker 1: that protected the town's gentle probability. Certainty, it turned out,
Speaker 1: was less valuable in the community shared willingness to adapt
Speaker 1: to negotiate to allow the ground to answer the need
Speaker 1: to memory of its people. For the first time, I
Speaker 1: felt at peace with ambiguity. I understood now that Paplin
Speaker 1: Lane was both real and unreal, always waiting to be
Speaker 1: found by those who needed it. So long as the
Speaker 1: clocks were a little out of teen and the stories
Speaker 1: were still being told, routine returned days, folding gently one
Speaker 1: into another. The markets rhythm persisted, the gull scolded, and
Speaker 1: new children dreamed of shortcuts just beyond reach, but nothing
Speaker 1: was quite the same. I watched people hesitate at corners.
Speaker 1: I was let with fresh possibility, and thought perhaps I
Speaker 1: was not alone in finding comfort and drifting certainty. On
Speaker 1: quiet afternoons. I still walked the town, tracing old routes
Speaker 1: as faithfully as ever, but where I would once have
Speaker 1: marked eris and brick or complained to the council, and
Speaker 1: now let space for wonder remain content and the knowledge
Speaker 1: that every map is a promise, not a guarantee. Sometimes
Speaker 1: standing outside the clockmaker's old workshop, I tear dozens of
Speaker 1: clocks murmuring their uneven rhythms, a gentle protess against alignment.
Speaker 1: The maps within alive with layers and annotations had lost
Speaker 1: none of their mystery, but were now objects of a
Speaker 1: fiction less tools of measurement and prompts for the next
Speaker 1: curious search. And every so often, rounding a corner in
Speaker 1: the blue dusk, I'd pause just long enough to sense
Speaker 1: the faint sweetness of violets and clock isle interpoined, I'd feel,
Speaker 1: if only for an instant, that the world could flex
Speaker 1: to fit to footfalls of the hopeful. Perhaps the clearest lesson,
Speaker 1: after all, is that each of us, in our daily
Speaker 1: circle of errands and routines, is already mapping and remapping
Speaker 1: home by memory, chance and desire. Certainty, I have learned,
Speaker 1: is only one way of belonging. So if ever you
Speaker 1: should visit our seas a town, do bring a flexible itinerary,
Speaker 1: And perhaps if you wander often enough, ye two may
Speaker 1: find yourself between garden wall and bookshop, the way opening
Speaker 1: just when you need it, however, briefly cut through by
Speaker 1: the butterfly shadows, at the day's last light. There is
Speaker 1: quiet delight in being willing to believe that the most
Speaker 1: curious corners of our lives are waiting for us only
Speaker 1: when we look with both memory and map. How many
Speaker 1: places I wonder, do we over loocal quietly invent just
Speaker 1: by remembering or needing them? And that is the end.
Speaker 1: Thank you for listening, and I will see you in
Speaker 1: the next one.