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The fire, though, was quiet. It showed in how she walked — deliberate, unhurried, as if measuring each step against a map only she could see. She worked nights at the bakery on Crescent Street, kneading dough until her knuckles ached, then sat on the fire escape reading poetry in a language most neighbors couldn't name.

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“Mona Azar,” the landlord wrote on a scrap of paper, misspelling it twice before she gently corrected him. “Azar,” she said, “means fire.” The fire, though, was quiet