Nastia kept a collection of curios in the corner: microphones in soft cases, a moth-eaten metronome, postcards from unnamed places. Nestled among them, sniffing at the fringe of a reel of tape, was a mouse no bigger than a walnut. Its fur was the color of browned parchment, its eyes bright and unnervingly intelligent. When Nastia bent down it did not flee. Instead it sat on its haunches as if waiting for instructions.
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