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Jin looked at Ame, and in that glance something unspoken passed — a permission and a plea. He had not sung in years. Songs were the language of shorelines and mothers and nights when the rain had made the world smaller and kinder. He cleared his throat and let a tune surface, slow and low like the tide, a simple song about fishermen and their wives, about nets that returned more than fish — about hands that clapped when a child was born and hands that dug graves. The melody was humble; it held the island in its bones.