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We showed Marcus the letters, expecting indifference. Instead, he asked to read. Sat cross-legged on the floor, quietly turning page after page. Then he said, softly:
“She told me about Jonas. He played violin. Had a birthmark on his left cheek.”
“You hated the hat, Jonas. Said it itched. That summer, the sun made your birthmark red—like a strawberry.”
“How do you know that?” we asked.
“She told me,” he said again.
Mrs. Dragu had barely spoken to anyone in the building for years. Yet here was Marcus—her confidant, her witness.
Over the next week, Marcus helped us sort through her things. He brought down a dusty box labeled “records.” Inside, old vinyls. One had “Jonas plays Track 3” scribbled in faded ink. We listened. The melody on Track 3 was fragile, aching—a violin singing from somewhere deep within memory.
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