A weathered man in the slums was whispering a forbidden narrative. Rain cascaded relentlessly, a permanent fixture of the lower district. Perched on a discarded crate behind the salvage shop, he held a flask of harsh spirits while an unlit cigarette dangled from his lips; his matches had been soaked for a week. He was unfolding a secret to a traveler he had decided, with a drunkard's sudden conviction, he could trust. He recalled being seven years old. His grandmother had led