The book collected everything that mattered and everything that didn’t. Each page became its own small map: vocabulary, small obsessions, a recipe, a phrase overheard on the tram that smelt of orange blossom. She used French, Arabic, Berber words, the clipped English her cousin used after studying abroad. The Wordlist didn’t care which language carried the memory; it simply wanted the memory to be recorded, pressed flat between pages.
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