What a mystery blood was-how did a tiny gesture, a tone of voice, endure through generations like the harder verities of flesh? He had seen it again and again, watching his nieces and nephews grow, and accepted without thought the echoes of parent and grandparent that appeared for brief moments, the shadow of a face looking back through the years-that vanished again into the face that was now.

Not the historians. No, not them. Their greatest crime is that they presume to know what happened, how things come about, when they have only what the past chose to leave behind-for the most part, they think what they were meant to think, and it’s a rare one that sees what really happened, behind the smokescreen of artifacts and paper.

There it was. There was no sense of him, or her, as I had thought there might be-but there was certainly a sense of Someone. I wondered whether perhaps babies had no gender-physical characteristics aside-until birth, when the act of exposure to the outside world set them forever as one or the other.

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