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Clemence

“It’ll fade if we play it too many times,” Poppy warns her. “Vinyl or satin, it all wears out.”

“Just once more,” says Clemence, a little too old to get away with liquid-eyed begging but still trying. “I can’t do it like you can!”

“I’ve shown you a million times,” says Poppy, but she unspools the typewriter ribbon anyway. Everything that turns steadily can record sound. If you’re sharp as a diamond needle, you can play it back.

Poppy opens her mouth. Clemence listens close, above the clatter-bang of the keys, for the singsong rumble of her father’s voice.

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