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... hort strokes. Angle changed twice to meet a lip the wrong builder had left in the mortar. Water. Air. Dry. He knelt to erase a little crescent his first pass had pretended not to see. He stood. He stepped back and let the room tell him if it had a complaint left.

The room had no complaint left.

He set the brush down very carefully, the way you set a tool you know will still be your friend tomorrow. He looked at the floor. Not at his work — at the floor. It was the floor again. It ...

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