I remember to this day walking home from the station. The way to my village, which borders on the town, lies across the fields. It was autumn, just before twilight. The wind was blowing, and some boys were zigzagging paper kites in the sky from the ends of interminable strings. Papa had once made me a kite. He took me into the field, threw the kite into the air, and ran with it until the wind took hold of the paper and carried it high. I didn't enjoy it much. Papa enjoyed it a lot more. I was touched now by the memory and quickened my pace. The idea crossed my mind that Papa had sent that kite
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