Jul-893 'link' | Fully Tested |

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And somewhere, in a meadow under a turquoise sky, a child—perhaps a descendant of Mira, perhaps a stranger—would laugh, holding a rag doll, unaware that the very fabric of her world was woven by the hand that had once reached through time to greet herself. The paradox lived on, a gentle reminder that every beginning is also an ending, and every ending, a new beginning. JUL-893