The eleventh spring in the house, the fig tree lost a limb. Not a small one — a large branch, heavy with years, that had stretched toward the ocean for longer than anyone could remember. It fell during a storm in March, cracking the stone beneath it, scattering figs that hadn't yet ripened. Miguel found it in the morning, his face pale, his hands trembling. "The tree is dying," he said. "The tree is old." "That's the same thing." --- We gathered around the fallen branch. The children — Daphne, now fifteen, and Celeste, now thirteen, and little Daphne, now eight — stood in a circle, their faces serious. Mira had come with Rosa, now seventeen, fierce and watchful. Joana held my hand. The cat, old Fig, sat on the porch, watching from a distance. "What do we do?" Hana asked. "We thank you," I said. "For the shade. For the fruit. For the century of staying." "Then what?" "Then we let it go." --- Miguel cut the branch into sections. Not for firewood — for memory. He carved pie
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