When Nuno was finished, not a single eye around the fire was dry. Pain, loss, dislocation, a search for home—each one of them knew these, too, in their own way. They sat with the grief of it, but with the wonder, too—that somehow, all had survived. Quamina began to sing. His voice was rich, deep, and he poured forth a haunting melody. The words were achingly familiar to Rachel, though she could not understand them, and did not recognize the song. This was a deeper kind of memory, held in body as much as in mind, an ancestral memory that time and distance could not erase, though white masters
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