Somewhere, years from now, someone would pull up the compressed build and wonder about the hand that had put it together. They might call him a thief or a saint, or simply an anonymous helper in the endless marketplace of desire. Malachite would have no answer for their labels. He would only remember a voice that had asked, in the thinness of grief: “Could you make it better?” and the immediate, precise satisfaction of making something right enough for one night.