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    Summary

    Douma frowned, understanding nothing but his mothers weeping. Had he failed to listen? Did he do something wrong?
    He was so young at the time, barely comprehending the men and women that came each day to spill their worries. What was so important about these names on his wrist?
    It had been his father that came back with a thick wrapping and a knife. The edge of the metal gleamed underneath the artificial light, glinting in a silent promise he was too young to understand.
    “Keep this on.” His father had demanded, wrapping his wrist tight enough to make him wince. The names slowly disappeared from view, pretty designs hidden underneath blank cloth. “You can never show anyone these markings, understand?! These names are meaningless.”
    Douma blinked, confused.
    What was his father talking about? But he wasn’t allowed to ask that, he was only here to help people. His own worries and curiosity didn’t matter.
    “Okay, Founder. I understand.”

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