On a bright morning near the end of Ana’s life, she walked to the attic and set the lantern on the sill so the sunlight could thread it. She held her own hand over it and let the memory of a cradle-song rise: her mother’s voice, a line of nonsense words that smelled faintly of milk and honey. Ana smiled and felt that she had given the village more than a thing that stored time; she had given them the practice of choosing what to carry.