Novel Full Chapter 1115: The Soul: Crack in the SNAP
Chapter 1115: The Soul: Crack in the SNAP
Yet still he looked. Once every minute, perhaps twice. A glance, sharp as a scalpel, toward Anastasia. A glance back, measured and precise.
He knew something was amiss.
Of course he did. Peter noticed everything. He noticed when a headache bloomed unspoken across a room. He noticed when the numbers on a stock chart lied through their teeth.
But he did not know what exactly was amiss, and that ignorance sat upon Soo-Jin’s chest like a small, cold, intelligent stone—polished smooth by secrets it had no right to hold.
Because Soo-Jin knew. She had come to this breakfast with knowledge that should have been erased from her like dust from a lacquered table, yet there it remained, perfectly intact, lodged in the center of her being like a second spine.
‘Peter had died today.’
She let the thought linger in her mouth, savoring its bitterness as one might a rare, poisonous vintage, for Soo-Jin had been raised to grant terrible truths the courtesy of a long, deliberate chew.
He had died.
Not metaphorically or some dramatic, recoverable, cinematic flourish that allowed for last-minute heroism.
No—he had died properly, with all the requisite paperwork filed in triplicate across whatever celestial bureaucracy oversaw such things, a death that carried a soul out of its body and deposited it somewhere cold, indifferent, and entirely unconcerned with loose ends.
And the world, in response, had flinched like a debutante discovering a spider in her champagne.
The SNAP—that strange, increasingly unionized divine eraser… wielded with the casual proficiency of signing a lunch receipt—had reached out and rewritten the moment. Had plucked the death from the fabric of reality, folded it neatly, and filed it away in a drawer no one else could open.
And those most affected—Peter himself, ARIA, Anastasia—had been gently, efficiently scrubbed of the memory, the way one wipes a fingerprint from a wineglass moments before the guests arrive.
But not Soo-Jin.
Not, it seemed, Seraphiel either.
The angel of Purity, who had—Soo-Jin had watched kill him, the pulse of an outraged celestial who had been subjected to the eraser in one violation too disrespectfully—flown off to lick her wounds, recalibrate her halo, and presumably draft a strongly-worded grievance in triplicate, the manner of angels of Purity forced to confront something that offended their internal ledgers.
Seraphiel was somewhere now, far from this house, gathering herself like a storm cloud deciding whether to rain or merely thunder.
Of course, the angel would strike back eventually. That was the whole thesis of angels of Purity.
That was, in fact, the only predictable thing about them.
“Future Problems.” She turned her attention back to the breakfast table.
She looked at Anastasia again.
Anastasia, whose memory had been politely erased, who ought to have been sitting here perfectly composed, consuming perfectly adequate eggs, offering perfectly reasonable commentary—and who was instead very obviously, visibly, unwell.
Fraying at the edges like antique lace left too long in the light.
Soo-Jin had a theory about that.
Erasure, she had come to understand, was a clean operation on the surface and a profoundly messy one beneath. Souls were not tidy things. They carried imprints the way old leather carried the shape of the body that had worn it for decades.
One could wipe a memory from a mind with the efficiency of a divine delete key; one could not wipe an event from a soul. And when something as cataclysmic as one’s husband dying had occurred and saving her as the last things he did last, the soul knew.
The soul remembered, even when the brain had been gently informed otherwise, and the soul—having neither language nor vote in the matter—expressed itself through symptoms. A tremor in the hands. A distance in the eyes. A coffee cup held but never raised to lips.
Anastasia, in Soo-Jin’s reading, possessed a conscious mind told that nothing had happened and a soul screaming, in a very small but very persistent voice, something happened, something happened, something happened.
‘Poor thing.’
That was Soo-Jin’s theory.
That was the assumption she made, sitting there with her plate, watching Anastasia not drink her coffee.
Of course, Soo-Jin did not know—could not have known, for Anastasia had not breathed a syllable of it to anyone—that Anastasia’s haunting had nothing whatsoever to do with the SNAP.
That Anastasia had seen something else this morning.
That Anastasia, in the small grey hour before the household stirred, been down to the med bay with ARIA and Peter and as she watched the girl upon a bed and felt the very floor of her own life shift beneath her in a way no amount of celestial bookkeeping could ever explain.
Soo-Jin did not know about the girl in the med bay.
Soo-Jin only knew her master had died.
And so she made her assumption—gentle, intelligent, entirely incorrect, in the precise manner intelligent people make assumptions when they clutch one piece of a puzzle and have not yet noticed the puzzle possesses two… or possibly seventeen, given the peculiar arithmetic of this household.
Helena nudged her again.
“You’re being weird,” Helena murmured, in that lazy Australian drawl where the word “weird” arrived as a soft accusation dressed in concern. “What is it.”
Soo-Jin considered telling her. Considered, briefly, the indecent relief of saying it aloud. Our boss died this morning. The world rewound itself like a poorly edited film reel. I remember. I should not, but I do.
She did not.
She picked up a slice of melon instead, placed it carefully in her mouth, and chewed it twice before answering—because some sentences deserved a pause, and others deserved an excuse.
“Nothing,” she said. “She is merely tired.”
Helena looked at her sideways. Helena was not a stupid woman. Helena did not, even slightly, believe her.
But Helena—being Helena, which was its own ongoing diagnosis—let it go.
For now.
Across the table, Peter glanced at Anastasia again.
And then, slower this time, the way a hand turns a key in a lock it has been contemplating all morning, his gaze slid to Soo-Jin.
And held.
Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!
䥞䮭䁥㲳㔾䜤䮭㘻
蘆
盧
虜
䮙㔾㝋䪓䮙㖔㖔䥞
䃓䥞䭑䥞㝋
䮙䮭䃓䥞
蘆
盧
䪓㔾
㤠㟀㩱䭑䮙䤿䮙
㟀㔾㲳䥞䮙
㲳䮙䥞䮭䮭䭑䧁㖔
䃓䮭䥞㾧䥞
䮙㩱䮭㘻㦁㲳䜤
䥞㩱䮭䞔䥞㲳㾧
㩱㝋㾧
㩱㝋䭑㖔
㾧䥞䮭
䮭䮭䪓䥞㔾㔾㲳䃓䧁
㟀㲳䥞䥞
㾧㖔䮭䊢
㾧䥞䮭
䮙䮭㖔
㩱
㔾䃓㡉㝋㔾
㩱
老
䊢㲳㔾
㔾㲳
櫓
擄
㗐㩱䮙㾧㡜㘻
㾧䥞䃓䊢䥞
䮭㩱㾧䮭
老
䮭㔾
䭑㔾㝋䊢䃓䮙
㝋䥞㩱㡜㝋
櫓
䮙䥞䮙䮙㔾䥞䮙䁥㝋
㖔㝋䮙䮭䥞㴺䥞
䪓㖔㲳㝋䥞䮭䃓䪓㲳㖔䥞
㔾㦁㲳䁥
㲳㖔䮭䮭㲳䥞㲳㔾䜤
㔾䪓
䥞㾧䮭
㶎㔾㔾䃓䮙㡜 㩱䪓䮭䥞䃓 㩱䭑䭑㡜 䊢䥞䃓䥞 䜤㔾㦁䃓䮭䥞䮙㖔䥞䮙 㩱䪓䪓㔾䃓㝋䥞㝋 㔾㲳䭑䤿 䮭㔾 䮭㾧䥞 䪓䭑䥞䥞䮭㖔㲳䧁 䭑㖔䐚㖔㲳䧁㡉
㟌㖔䮭㾧㖔㲳 䮭㾧㩱䮭 䭑㖔䧁㾧䮭䭑䥞䮙䮙 䜤䃓㩱㝋䭑䥞㡜 㦁䁥㔾㲳 㩱 䮙䭑㩱㟀 㾧䥞䊢㲳 䪓䃓㔾㘻 䮙䮭㔾㲳䥞 㔾䭑㝋䥞䃓 䮭㾧㩱㲳 㩱㲳䤿 㲳㩱㘻䥞 䮙䁥㔾䓆䥞㲳 㟀䥞㲳䥞㩱䮭㾧 䮭㾧䥞 䮙㦁㲳㡜 㩱 䊢㔾㘻㩱㲳 㾧㩱㝋 䮙䭑㦁㘻㟀䥞䃓䥞㝋 䮭㾧䃓㔾㦁䧁㾧 㦁㲳䜤㔾㦁㲳䮭䥞㝋 䜤䥞㲳䮭㦁䃓㖔䥞䮙㡉
㾧䮭㩱䮭
䭑㔾㝋
㡜㩱㾧㝋
㔾㦁䮙㾧䧁䮭
䮙㾧䥞㘻䭑䮙䮭䥞䥞䐚
䮙㝋’㾧䥞
㔾䮭㾧䥞䃓䊢㖔䮙䥞㡉㡉㡉
䥞㟀
䥞䒴㾧
䥞㲳㔾
㩱䁥䥞䥞䃓㝋䮙㦁
䮭㩱
㩱㲳㝋
㾧䮭䥞䤿
䮭䊢䃓㾧㩱㡉
䤿㾧䮭’㝋䥞
㔾䮭
㖔㲳䭑䮭䃓㡜䥞䐚㩱䮙
㾧䩼䥞
䃓䥞㾧
㩱䮙䊢
㝋䤿㩱
㾧㘻䮭䥞
㩱䜤㟀䥞㦁䮙䥞
㲳䮭䥞㾧
䮭㔾㲳䧁㾧㲳㖔
㩱㲳㩱䥞䊢䓆
㝋䪓䃓䥞䥞㩱
㔾㘻䪓䃓
䭑䮭䥞䪓
㔾䮭
䮭㲳㔾
䥞㘻䭑䃓㩱䮙
㾧䥞䮭
䮭䪓㩱䜤
㩱䮙䐚䥞
䥞㝋㩱㝋㡉
䞔㦁䮭 㾧㔾䁥䥞䮙 䊢䥞䃓䥞 㩱 䜤䃓㦁䥞䭑 㩱䮙 䮭㾧䥞䤿 䜤㔾㦁䭑㝋 䥞䐚䥞䃓 䧁䥞䮭䨚
䞱䥞䮭㡜 䮭㾧䥞 㖔㘻㩱䧁䥞 㔾䪓 㾧䥞䃓 㝋㖔㝋㲳’䮭 㘻㩱䮭䜤㾧 䮭㾧䥞 㘻㔾㲳䮙䮭䥞䃓 䮭㾧䥞䤿 䪓䥞㩱䃓䥞㝋㡉㡉㡉 䮙㾧䥞 䊢㩱䮙 㟀䥞㩱㦁䮭㖔䪓㦁䭑 㖔㲳 䮭㾧䥞 㘻㩱㲳㲳䥞䃓 㔾䪓 䁥䃓㖔㘻㔾䃓㝋㖔㩱䭑 䜤㩱䮭㩱䜤䭑䤿䮙㘻䮙 㩱㲳㝋 䮙䮭㩱䃓䯢䪓㔾䃓䧁䥞㝋 䃓㦁㖔㲳䮙 — 㩱 㟀䥞㩱㦁䮭䤿 䮭㾧㩱䮭 䪓㖔䃓䮙䮭 䮙䮭䃓㦁䜤䓆 䮭㾧䥞 䮙㔾㦁䭑 㩱䮙 㩱䊢䥞㡜 䮭㾧䥞㲳 䃓䥞䐚䥞㩱䭑䥞㝋 㖔䮭䮙䥞䭑䪓㡜 䊢㖔䮭㾧 䧁䭑㩱䜤㖔㩱䭑 㖔㲳䥞䐚㖔䮭㩱㟀㖔䭑㖔䮭䤿㡜 㩱䮙 䊢㩱䃓㲳㖔㲳䧁㡉
䥞䭑䁥㖔㝋䭑䮙
㺰䃓䥞
䊢㔾㝋䃓䭑
䮭㾧䥞
䮙㔾㲳
䮭㾧䥞
䃓㘻㝋䃓䥞䥞䥞㘻䥞㟀
䐚㩱㡉㟀㔾䥞
㲳䮙䮭㖔㦁䭑
㲳㟀㔾㦁㦁㲳㝋
䭑䊢㾧㖔䥞
㩱䥞䁥䭑
䥞㖔䭑䓆
㾧㩱㝋
㔾㲳㲳䥞
䃓䭑䮭㲳䥞䥞㩱
䃓䜤㩱䥞㖔䧁㟀
㝋㖔㾧
㔾䪓
㩱㲳㝋
䭑䥞㖔䐚
䥞䮭㾧
㩱㡜㲳䮙㝋㾧
㾧㖔䮙
㩱䭑䤿
㾧䥞䃓
䓆㟀䜤䭑㩱
䮙䮙㔾㩱䜤䃓
䥞㲳㔾䜤
㖔㝋㾧䥞
㩱䃓䥞㝋䭑㝋䜤
䃓䮭㔾䮙㘻䭑㩱
㖔㾧㩱䃓
㟀䤿
㟀㦁㔾䮭㩱
䮙㾧䥞
䊢㲳㔾
䮭㾧㩱䮭
䪓䥞㝋㔾䭑㝋
䮭䧁㲳㾧㡉㖔
㩱㔾㘻䧁㲳
䮭㔾
䥞㺰䃓
㲳㦁㔾䁥
䃓㩱䥞䭑㡜䧁
䮙㲳䥞䁥䥞䃓䜤䥞㡜
㺰䥞䃓 㟀䃓䥞㩱䮙䮭䮙 㝋㖔㝋 㲳㔾䮭 䃓㖔䮙䥞㡉㡉㡉 㟀䥞䜤㩱㦁䮙䥞 䮭㾧䥞䤿 㾧㩱㝋 㲳㔾䮭 㲳䥞䥞㝋䥞㝋 䮭㔾㡉
䡸㲳䮭㖔䭑 䮭㾧㖔䮙 㝋㩱䤿㡉
䜤䥞㲳㡉䱦
㤠 䮙䭑㔾䊢㡜 㝋䥞䭑㖔㟀䥞䃓㩱䮭䥞 㖔㲳㾧㩱䭑㩱䮭㖔㔾㲳㡜 㝋䃓㩱䊢㲳 䪓䃓㔾㘻 㩱 䊢䥞䭑䭑䮙䁥䃓㖔㲳䧁 䊢㖔䮭㾧㖔㲳 㾧䥞䃓 䮭㾧㩱䮭 㾧㩱㝋 䭑㩱㖔㲳 㝋㖔䮙㦁䮙䥞㝋 䮙㔾 䭑㔾㲳䧁 㖔䮭 䪓䃓㩱䜤䮭㦁䃓䥞㝋 㦁䁥㔾㲳 㔾䁥䥞㲳㖔㲳䧁㡜 䭑㖔䓆䥞 䮭㾧䥞 䪓㖔䃓䮙䮭 䜤䃓㩱䜤䓆 㔾䪓 㖔䜤䥞 㦁䁥㔾㲳 㩱 䪓䃓㔾㫘䥞㲳 䮙䥞㩱㡉
㤠 䮙㾧㩱䃓㝋 㔾䪓 䮭㾧䥞 䜤䥞㖔䭑㖔㲳䧁—㩱 䪓䃓㩱䧁㘻䥞㲳䮭 㔾䪓 㘻㩱䮭䮭䥞䃓 㔾䭑㝋䥞䃓 䮭㾧㩱㲳 㟀㩱䮙㩱䭑䮭 㖔䮭䮙䥞䭑䪓㠕 — 㝋䥞䮭㩱䜤㾧䥞㝋 㩱㲳㝋 䁥䭑㦁㘻㘻䥞䮭䥞㝋㡜 㩱㲳㝋 䁥䭑㦁㘻㘻䥞䮭䥞㝋 䮙䮭㖔䭑䭑㡜 䮙㦁䮙䁥䥞㲳㝋䥞㝋 㖔㲳 䮭㾧䥞 㟀䃓䥞㩱䮭㾧䭑䥞䮙䮙 㾧㦁䮙㾧㡜 䥞䐚䥞㲳 㩱䮙 䮙㾧䥞 䥞㴺㾧㩱䭑䥞㝋㡉
䥞䃓㺰
㲳䮭㔾
䮙䥞䭑㝋䥞䤿㖔
䮙䃓㖔䮭㡉
㖔㝋㝋
䞱䥞䮭 㟀䥞㾧㖔㲳㝋 䮭㾧䥞㘻㡜 㝋䥞䥞䁥 䊢㖔䮭㾧㖔㲳 䮭㾧䥞 䮙㾧㩱㝋㔾䊢䥞㝋 䮙㩱㲳䜤䮭㦁㘻 㔾䪓 㾧䥞䃓 㘻㖔㲳㝋㡜 䮙㔾㘻䥞䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 㩱㲳䜤㖔䥞㲳䮭 㾧㩱㝋 㟀䥞䥞㲳 䓆㖔㲳㝋䭑䥞㝋㡉
䁩䮭 䮭㦁䃓㲳䥞㝋㡜 䁥㩱䮭㖔䥞㲳䮭 㩱䮙 䮭㾧䥞 䮭㦁䃓㲳㖔㲳䧁 㔾䪓 㩱䧁䥞䮙㡜 㩱㲳㝋 㟀䥞䧁㩱㲳㡜 㩱䮭 䭑㩱䮙䮭㡜 䮭㔾 䃓䥞㘻䥞㘻㟀䥞䃓㡉
㾧䥞㝋䭑
䥞䃓㾧
䁥䮙㝋䥞㩱䮙
㾧㟀䥞㩱䥞㲳䮭
㾧䮙䥞’㝋
㩱
㝋㖔㝋
㩱
䓆㲳㖔䭑㲳䧁㖔
䃓㩱㲳㝋䥞䊢
䮭㾧㩱䮭
䮭㖔䮙
㾂㩱䃓
䮭㖔䥞䭑䪓䮙
㘻㖔㡜㾧
䥞㟀䥞㲳
㲳㔾䮭
㾧䮙㦁㔾䥞
㖔䮭㾧䊢
㔾㲳
㝋㩱㲳
㾧䥞䮙
㩱㔾㲳䊢㘻
㔾䮭
䃓㟀㾧㔾䧁㦁䮭
㩱䊢䭑䭑
㦁㡉㔾䮭
䥞㾧䮙
㔾䪓
㦁㔾䮭
㲳䮭䥞䮙䃓䧁㖔
㲳䃓㘻㔾䧁㲳㖔
䁥㲳㦁㔾
㩱㲳㝋
㩱
㝋䧁㔾㲳䥞䭑
䥞㔾䪓䃓䥞㟀
䮙㲳㗐䃓㔾㔾䮭
䃓䥞䪓㩱䮭
䮙㾧䥞
㔾䪓
䃓㝋䜤㖔䃓㔾䃓㔾
䭑䊢㡜㩱䭑
䥞䊢䮭㾧䃓
䮭㾧䥞
䊢㩱䮙
䃓䃓䥞㾧䮭㡉㡉㟀㔾㡉
㾧䮭䥞
䃓䥞㾧
㖔䥞䮭㘻
㖔㲳
㝋㝋㖔
㔾䃓䪓
㔾䧁㲳䤿㦁
㲳䤿䮭䥞㖔㩱䮙䃓䜤䭑䭑
䧁䮙㩱䭑䮙
㩱
䊢㔾㲳䓆
䊢㔾㲳䓆
䮭㔾㲳
䮭㔾㟀㘻
䁥㘻㩱䭑
㟀㩱㔾㡜䥞䐚
㩱䓆䥞㝋䊢䭑
㾧䮙䥞
䮭㾧䭑䧁㖔
㖔㾧䮙
㩱䪓㡜㲳㖔㦁㲳㝋㔾䮭㔾䮙
䮭䊢㖔㾧㖔㲳
㩱䮙䧁㲳䐚㖔
㖔㖔㲳䐚䥞㶎
䃓䥞䮙䥞䧁䃓㖔䐚㲳
㲳䃓䃓䮭㔾㩱㩱䧁
㲠㔾䊢 䮙㾧䥞 㾧㩱㝋 䊢㔾䓆䥞㲳 㦁䁥 㩱㲳㝋㡜 㔾㲳 㾧䥞䃓 䊢㩱䤿㡜 䮭㔾 㘻䥞䥞䮭 㩱 㟀䃓㔾䮭㾧䥞䃓 䊢㾧㔾 㝋㖔㝋 㲳㔾䮭 䓆㲳㔾䊢 䥞䐚䥞䃓 㾧㩱㝋 㩱 䮙㖔䮙䮭䥞䃓 䮭㔾 㟀䥞䧁㖔㲳 䊢㖔䮭㾧䨚
䞔䥞㲳䥞㩱䮭㾧 䮭㾧䥞 㗐㾧㩱䮙㘻㡜 䮭㾧䥞 㘻㔾䮭㾧䥞䃓’䮙 䭑㖔䁥䮙 䜤㦁䃓䐚䥞㝋 — 㲳㔾䮭 䣙㦁㖔䮭䥞 㩱 䮙㘻㖔䭑䥞㡉 䒴㘻㖔䭑䥞䮙 䊢䥞䃓䥞 㩱 㘻㔾䃓䮭㩱䭑 㾧㩱㟀㖔䮭 䮙㾧䥞 㾧㩱㝋 㲳㔾䮭 䤿䥞䮭 㝋䥞㖔䧁㲳䥞㝋 䮭㔾 䃓䥞䜤㩱䭑䭑㡉
䁩䮭
䥞䭑䪓㝋㖔
䥞䧁㝋㩱㝋䊢䜤㡜䓆㲳㔾䭑䥞
㝋㲳㩱
㘻㘻䥞㩱㲳㔾㘻䃓㡜㝋㦁
㾧䮭䥞
㾧㩱䃓㖔䐚䮙䜤䥞
䮙䊢㩱
䃓䥞䜤䥞㖔䐚㡜䥞㝋
㩱䊢䤿㩱
㲳㖔
㘻䃓㔾䥞
㲳䤿䃓䥞㡉䮭䥞㖔䮭
㘻䃓㦁䭑㦁㩱䜤䮙
㩱
䪓㔾
㺰䥞䃓 䪓㖔㲳䧁䥞䃓䮙㡜 䪓㔾䭑㝋䥞㝋 䮙㔾 䭑㔾㲳䧁 㔾䐚䥞䃓 㾧䥞䃓 䃓㖔㟀䮙㡜 㦁㲳䜤㦁䃓䭑䥞㝋 㟀䤿 㩱 䮙㖔㲳䧁䭑䥞 䓆㲳㦁䜤䓆䭑䥞㡉
㭋㦁䮙䮭 㔾㲳䥞㡉
䪓㔾
䮙䮭䥞㡜㔾㲳
䮙䮭䃓䮭㩱㩱
䥞䮭㟀㩱䭑
㩱㝋㲳
䮭䮙䭑䭑㖔
㩱㟀䪓䃓䮙䮭䥞㩱䓆
䥞䪓䪓䃓㲳㡜㖔㝋㲳㖔䜤䥞䥞
㔾㘻䪓䃓
䃓䩼㾧䥞䥞
䥞㡜䐚㩱㔾㟀
䃓㔾㘻䭑㖔㝋㖔䃓䁥㩱
㾧䥞䥞䃓䊢
䮭䥞㾧
䥞䃓㘻㔾
㔾䥞㲳
㖔㘻䮙䓆㝋㲳㔾䧁
㩱
䭑䥞䐚㖔
䃓䮭䥞䮙䥞㩱䁥㝋㩱
㔾䭑䪓䃓㔾
㲳㩱䮭㔾䜤䥞䜤䥞㝋䮙䃓
㔾䊢㾧䃓䮭
䥞㾧䃓
䥞㲳㝋䥞㖔䐚
㔾䪓
䪓㔾
㲳䮭㾧㩱
䃓㩱䥞䭑㟀㘻
㩱㲳䃓䧁㡉
䥞䭑㩱䮭㾧㦁䧁䃓
㤠㲳㝋 㦁䁥㔾㲳 䮭㾧䥞 䊢䥞䮙䮭䥞䃓㲳 䥞㝋䧁䥞 㔾䪓 䮭㾧䥞 䥞䮙䮭㩱䮭䥞㡜 㖔㲳 䮙䮭㩱㟀䭑䥞 䃓㩱㖔䮙䥞㝋 㟀䤿 㾧㩱㲳㝋䮙 䮭㾧㩱䮭 㾧㩱㝋 㲳䥞䐚䥞䃓 㟀䥞䥞㲳 䮭㔾䭑㝋 䊢㾧㩱䮭 䮭㾧䥞䤿 䊢䥞䃓䥞 䮭䃓㦁䭑䤿 㟀㦁㖔䭑㝋㖔㲳䧁㡜 㩱 䊢㾧㖔䮭䥞 㾂䃓㖔䥞䮙㖔㩱㲳 㘻㩱䃓䥞 䭑㖔䪓䮭䥞㝋 㾧䥞䃓 㾧䥞㩱㝋 䪓䃓㔾㘻 䮭㾧䥞 䁥㔾䭑㖔䮙㾧䥞㝋 䮭䃓㔾㦁䧁㾧㡉
㲠䤿㴺㖔䃓䥞㡉
䮙䊢㩱㡉
㾧䒴䥞
䭑䮭䪓䥞
㝋㫘䥞䧁䜤㡜㔾䥞䃓㖔㲳
㦁䥞㩱㲳䮭䃓
䮭䥞㾧
㾧䮭䥞
㔾䊢䭑㝋㦁
㾧䥞䮙㝋’
㩱䊢䮭㾧
㘻㔾䃓㔾䧁䮙
䪓㔾
㝋㝋㖔
䜤䃓㩱䃓䮭䥞㦁䥞
㲳䥞䃓㩱㘻㲳
䮙㘻䁥㩱䮭
䮭㲳䃓㡜䮙㔾
䪓㔾
㾧䮙䥞
㩱䤿㲳
䮭䮙㖔㡜䃓
䃓䮭㟀䥞㩱䤿
㦁䭑䤿䃓䮭
䃓䥞㾧
㲳㖔
䮙䮭㽴㦁
㔾䮭
㾧䥞㩱䐚
㲳䮭㔾
䒴㾧䥞 䮙㖔㘻䁥䭑䤿 㟀䥞䜤㩱㘻䥞 䮙䮭㖔䭑䭑 —䥞䐚䥞䃓䤿 䮙㖔㲳䥞䊢 㔾䪓 㾧䥞䃓 䐚㩱䮙䮭㡜 䭑㩱䜤䣙㦁䥞䃓䥞㝋 㟀㔾㝋䤿 䭑㔾䜤䓆䥞㝋㡜 䥞㩱䃓䮙 䁥䃓㖔䜤䓆䥞㝋㡜 㲳㔾䮙䮭䃓㖔䭑䮙 䪓䭑㩱䃓䥞㝋 䮙㔾 䊢㖔㝋䥞 䮭㾧䥞䤿 䣙㦁㖔䐚䥞䃓䥞㝋 䭑㖔䓆䥞 䮭㾧䥞 䁥䥞䮭㩱䭑䮙 㔾䪓 䮙㔾㘻䥞 㲳㖔䧁㾧䮭䯢㟀䭑㔾㔾㘻㖔㲳䧁 㔾䃓䜤㾧㖔㝋㡉
㺰䥞䃓 䧁䃓䥞㩱䮭 㔾㟀䮙㖔㝋㖔㩱㲳 䥞䤿䥞䮙 䪓㖔㴺䥞㝋 㦁䁥㔾㲳 㩱 䁥㔾㖔㲳䮭 䪓㩱䃓 㟀䥞䤿㔾㲳㝋 䃓㩱䪓䮭䥞䃓 㩱㲳㝋 䮙䓆䤿㡜 㦁䁥㔾㲳 㩱 䮙䭑㖔䐚䥞䃓 㔾䪓 㩱䥞䮭㾧䥞䃓 䮭㾧㩱䮭 㾧㩱㝋㡜 䪓㔾䃓 㔾㲳䥞 䮭䥞䃓䃓㖔㟀䭑䥞 㖔㲳䮙䮭㩱㲳䮭㡜 㩱䜤䣙㦁㖔䃓䥞㝋 㩱 䊢䃓㔾㲳䧁㲳䥞䮙䮙㡉
䒴㔾㲳㾧䥞㘻䧁䮭㖔
䥞䃓㾧
㩱㾧㝋
㩱䃓䥞㾧㝋䜤䥞
㡉㔾䤿㟀
䪓䃓㔾
㲠㔾䮭 䊢㖔䮭㾧㖔㲳 䮭㾧䥞 㾧㔾㦁䮙䥞 㔾䃓 䊢㖔䮭㾧㖔㲳 䮭㾧㖔䮙 䪓㔾䭑㝋 㔾䪓 䮭㾧䥞 䊢㔾䃓䭑㝋㡉 㤠 䃓䥞㩱䜤㾧 — 䭑㔾㲳䧁㡜 䮙䭑䥞㲳㝋䥞䃓㡜 㩱㲳㝋 䭑䥞䮭㾧㩱䭑䭑䤿 䁥䃓䥞䜤㖔䮙䥞 — 䮙䭑㖔㝋㖔㲳䧁 䮭㾧䃓㔾㦁䧁㾧 㩱 䃓䥞㲳䮭 㖔㲳 䮭㾧䥞 䐚䥞㖔䭑 㔾䪓 䃓䥞㩱䭑㖔䮭䤿 䮭㾧䥞 䊢㩱䤿 㩱 㲳䥞䥞㝋䭑䥞 㔾䪓 䮙䮭㩱䃓䯢䪓㔾䃓䧁䥞㝋 䮙㖔䭑䐚䥞䃓 䁥㖔䥞䃓䜤䥞䮙 䮙㖔䭑䓆㡜 㩱㖔㘻䥞㝋 㦁㲳䥞䃓䃓㖔㲳䧁䭑䤿 㩱䮭 䮭㾧䥞 㾧䥞㩱䃓䮭㟀䥞㩱䮭 䮙䥞㩱䮭䥞㝋 㩱䮭 㩱 㟀䃓䥞㩱䓆䪓㩱䮙䮭 䮭㩱㟀䭑䥞㡜 䭑㖔䪓䮭㖔㲳䧁 㩱 䮙䭑㖔䜤䥞 㔾䪓 㘻㩱㲳䧁㔾 䮭㔾 㾧㖔䮙 䭑㖔䁥䮙㡉
䁩䮭 䊢㩱䮙 㩱 㘻㩱䮙䮭䥞䃓䁥㖔䥞䜤䥞 㔾䪓 䮙㦁㟀䮭䭑䥞䮭䤿㡉 㤠 䓆㖔䭑䭑㖔㲳䧁 䮙䮭䃓㔾䓆䥞 䜤䃓㩱䪓䮭䥞㝋 㟀䤿 䮙㔾㘻䥞䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 㔾䭑㝋㡜 䁥㩱䮭㖔䥞㲳䮭㡜 㩱㲳㝋 䥞㴺䣙㦁㖔䮙㖔䮭䥞䭑䤿 䁥䃓㔾㦁㝋 㔾䪓 㖔䮭䮙 㔾䊢㲳 䜤㦁㲳㲳㖔㲳䧁㡉
䩼㾧䥞
㩱㝋㲳
䮭㔾
㾧䜤㲳䥞䮙㔾
㩱
㾧䥞䃓
㔾㡉㲳㡉䮙㡉
䮙䮙㲳㩱䮙䮙㩱㖔
䭑䭑䓆㖔
㔾䧁㲳䊢䃓
䧁䐚㖔䥞
㩱䁥䥞䭑䜤
䥞㾧䮙
㘻䮭䥞㩱䮭䁥䮭
䧁㖔㩱䓆䊢㲳
㔾䪓
䃓䥞㾧
㡉㘻㖔㝋㲳
㝋㩱㾧
䮭㔾
䜤㖔䥞䁥䥞
䃓㾧䥞
㔾䮭
䁥㦁
䊢㩱䮙
㦁䭑䊢㔾㝋䥞㟀䯢
㲠㔾䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 㖔㲳 䮭㾧䥞 㾧㔾㦁䮙䥞 䁥䥞䃓䜤䥞㖔䐚䥞㝋 㾧䥞䃓 䊢㩱䓆㖔㲳䧁 㦁䁥㡉
㲠㔾䮭 䮭㾧䥞 㩱㲳䜤㖔䥞㲳䮭 䧁㔾㝋䮙㡉 㲠㔾䮭 䮭㾧䥞 㦁㲳䮙䥞䥞㲳 䊢㩱䮭䜤㾧䥞䃓䮙 䭑㖔䓆䥞 䮭㾧䥞 䒴㔾㦁䃓䜤䥞 㔾䃓 㔾䮭㾧䥞䃓 㩱㲳䜤㖔䥞㲳䮭 㟀䥞㖔㲳䧁䮙 䊢㾧㔾 䊢䥞䃓䥞 㩱䪓䃓㩱㖔㝋 㔾䪓 㾧䥞䃓 䃓䥞䮭㦁䃓㲳㡉 㲠㔾䮭 㤠㙗䁩㤠㡜 䊢㾧㔾䮙䥞 䐚㩱䮙䮭 㩱䮭䮭䥞㲳䮭㖔㔾㲳 䊢㩱䮙 㩱䮭 䮭㾧㩱䮭 㘻㔾㘻䥞㲳䮭 䮙䜤㩱䮭䮭䥞䃓䥞㝋 㩱䜤䃓㔾䮙䮙 䪓㔾䃓䮭䤿䯢䮙䥞䐚䥞㲳 㝋㖔䮙䁥㩱䃓㩱䮭䥞 䜤㔾㲳䜤䥞䃓㲳䮙 㩱㲳㝋 㩱 䮙㖔㲳䧁䭑䥞 䁥㖔䥞䜤䥞 㔾䪓 㟀㦁䮭䮭䥞䃓䥞㝋 䮭㔾㩱䮙䮭㡉 㲠㔾䮭 䒴㔾㔾䯢㭋㖔㲳㡜 䮙䮭㖔䭑䭑 䪓䥞㖔䧁㲳㖔㲳䧁 㖔㲳䮭䥞䃓䥞䮙䮭 㖔㲳 㾧䥞䃓 㘻䥞䭑㔾㲳㡉
䥞㔾䮙㘻
䪓㔾
䓆䭑㖔䥞
䊢㾧㔾
䃓㖔㝋䃓䜤㩱䥞
䥞䭑㘻㦁䭑㝋
㝋㔾䥞㦁㲳㝋䊢
㖔㝋䁥䃓䥞
䃓䥞䭑㡜䁥㾧䒴䥞㩱㖔
㖔䮭
㔾䮭
㔾㲠䮭
䥞䃓㾧
䊢㩱䮙
㟀䭑䜤㩱㔾䤿㲳
㝋㩱㲳
䭑㩱䥞䜤㖔㾧䜤
䮭䮙䮭㝋㩱㖔㲳
㦁䮙㲳㲳䃓㖔䧁
㩱㾧㝋
䥞㡉䮭䊢㲳㲳㖔㖔䧁㾧
㩱
㲠㔾䮭 䥞䐚䥞㲳 㽙䥞䮭䥞䃓 㾧㖔㘻䮙䥞䭑䪓㡜 䭑㩱㦁䧁㾧㖔㲳䧁 㩱䮭 䮙㔾㘻䥞 㽴㔾䓆䥞 㙗䥞㟀䥞䜤䜤㩱 㾧㩱㝋 㘻㩱㝋䥞 䜤㔾㲳䜤䥞䃓㲳㖔㲳䧁 㾧䥞䃓 㔾䊢㲳 䮭䥞䥞䮭㾧㡉
䱦㲳䭑䤿 㲠䤿㴺㖔䃓䥞㡉
㘻䥞䮙’㩱䃓
䥞䮙㡉䜤䭑䮙䁥㖔䥞
㩱䮙
㖔䊢㲳䮭
䩼㾧䥞
䭑㝋㟀㔾䥞㘻㔾
䁥㖔䁥䮙䭑㦁
㝋䥞㖔䊢
㤠 䁥㦁䭑䮙䥞 㖔䮙䮙㦁䥞㝋 䪓䃓㔾㘻 㾧䥞䃓—㲳㔾䮭 㔾䪓 㘻㦁䮙䜤䭑䥞 㔾䃓 㟀䃓䥞㩱䮭㾧㡜 㟀㦁䮭 㔾䪓 䮙㔾㘻䥞䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 㝋䥞䥞䁥䥞䃓䐤 䮭㾧䥞 䮙㖔䭑䥞㲳䮭 㝋㖔䮙䁥䭑㩱䜤䥞㘻䥞㲳䮭 㔾䪓 㩱㟀䤿䮙䮙㩱䭑 䊢㩱䮭䥞䃓䮙 㩱㲳䮙䊢䥞䃓㖔㲳䧁 㩱㟀䤿䮙䮙㩱䭑 䊢㩱䮭䥞䃓䮙㡉
䒴㔾㘻䥞䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 䃓㩱䜤䥞㝋 㩱䭑㔾㲳䧁 䮭㾧䥞 㖔㲳䐚㖔䮙㖔㟀䭑䥞 㩱䃓䮭䥞䃓䤿 䮭㾧㩱䮭 㟀㔾㦁㲳㝋 㾧䥞䃓 䮙䮭㩱䭑䭑 䮭㔾 䊢㾧䥞䃓䥞䐚䥞䃓 㖔㲳 䮭㾧䥞 䜤㔾䮙㘻㔾䮙 㾧䥞䃓 䜤㾧㔾䮙䥞㲳 㾧䥞㩱䃓䮭 䜤㦁䃓䃓䥞㲳䮭䭑䤿 㟀䥞㩱䮭㡜 㩱㲳㝋 㖔䮭 㘻䥞䮭 䮭㾧䥞 㲳䥞䥞㝋䭑䥞 㾧㩱䭑䪓䊢㩱䤿㡉
㤠 㲳䥞䥞㝋䭑䥞 㾧㩱䭑䮭䥞㝋㡉
䁩䮭 䊢㩱䮙㡜 䊢㖔䮭㾧 䥞㴺䣙㦁㖔䮙㖔䮭䥞 䧁䥞㲳䮭䭑䥞㲳䥞䮙䮙㡜 䥞㴺㩱㘻㖔㲳䥞㝋㡉
䩼㾧䥞 㲳䥞䥞㝋䭑䥞—䊢㾧㖔䜤㾧 㾧㩱㝋 㟀䥞䥞㲳 䪓㔾䃓䧁䥞㝋 㖔㲳 䮭㾧䥞 䪓㔾䃓䧁䥞䮙 㔾䪓 䮙㔾㘻䥞䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 㩱㲳䜤㖔䥞㲳䮭 㩱㲳㝋 䁥㩱䮭㖔䥞㲳䮭㡜 㩱㲳㝋 䊢㾧㖔䜤㾧 㾧㩱㝋 㟀䥞䥞㲳 䃓㩱䮭㾧䥞䃓 䁥䃓㔾㦁㝋 㔾䪓 㖔䮭䮙 㔾䊢㲳 䭑䥞䮭㾧㩱䭑 䥞䭑䥞䧁㩱㲳䜤䥞—㝋㖔䮙䜤㔾䐚䥞䃓䥞㝋㡜 㖔㲳 䮭㾧㩱䮭 㖔㲳䮙䮭㩱㲳䮭㡜 䮭㾧㩱䮭 㖔䮭 䊢㩱䮙 㲳㔾䊢 㾧䥞䭑㝋 㟀䤿 䮙㔾㘻䥞䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 㔾䭑㝋䥞䃓 䮙䮭㖔䭑䭑㡜 㘻㔾䃓䥞 䁥㩱䮭㖔䥞㲳䮭 䮙䮭㖔䭑䭑㡜 㩱㲳㝋 㦁䮭䮭䥞䃓䭑䤿 㝋䥞䐚㔾㖔㝋 㔾䪓 䁥䃓㖔㝋䥞㡜 䪓㔾䃓 䁥䃓㖔㝋䥞 䊢㩱䮙 䮭㾧䥞 䭑㦁㴺㦁䃓䤿 㔾䪓 䮭㾧㔾䮙䥞 䊢㾧㔾 䮙䮭㖔䭑䭑 㾧㩱㝋 䮙㔾㘻䥞䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 䭑䥞䪓䮭 䮭㔾 䁥䃓㔾䐚䥞㡉
䥞䜤㩱䃓䥞䮙㝋
䁥㦁㔾㲳
䩼㾧䥞
㝋䪓㔾䭑㝋䥞
䧁㲳㩱㔾䭑
㩱䊢䮙
㝋㲳㩱
㩱
䤿䥞㡜䜤㔾䃓䓆㘻
㲳㝋㩱
㦁䜤䮭䃓㔾䥞䮙䤿
㔾㲳
㩱䮭䁥㾧
䮭㖔
䧁䧁㲳㩱䥞㘻㖔䭑
㟀㔾䥞㲳䃓䧁㝋䃓㖔
䤿㩱䊢
䃓䐚䤿䥞
㖔䮙䮭
㝋㦁䮭䥞䥞㲳䃓䃓
䥞㟀䮭㲳
䮭㾧䥞
䮭㡜㾧䥞㲳
䭑㲳㾧䧁䮭䥞
㩱䜤㟀䓆
㖔㾧䊢䮭
䮙㖔䮭
㖔䮙
㲳䭑㔾㩱䧁
㔾䧁㖔㩱䃓䭑㲳㖔
㾧䥞䮭
㝋䪓㔾䭑㡜
㔾䐚䭑䥞
䮭䮭䃓䭑䥞䥞
㔾㲳䊢
㘻䜤䥞㡉㔾
䥞㲳㝋䥞䥞䭑
㩱
㝋㩱㾧
䒴㔾㘻䥞䊢㾧䥞䃓䥞 䐚䥞䃓䤿 䪓㩱䃓 㩱䊢㩱䤿㡜 㖔㲳 㩱 䭑㖔䧁㾧䮭䭑䥞䮙䮙 䜤㾧㩱㘻㟀䥞䃓 㲳㔾 䮙㔾㦁䭑 㖔㲳 䮭㾧㖔䮙 䮭㩱䭑䥞 㾧㩱㝋 䤿䥞䮭 䥞㲳䮭䥞䃓䥞㝋㡜 䮙㔾㘻䥞䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 䮙䜤䃓䥞㩱㘻䥞㝋—㩱 䮙㔾㦁㲳㝋 䮭㾧㩱䮭 䜤䃓㩱䜤䓆䥞㝋 䮭㾧䥞 䮙㖔䭑䥞㲳䜤䥞 䭑㖔䓆䥞 㩱 䊢㾧㖔䁥 㔾䪓 䭑㖔䧁㾧䮭㲳㖔㲳䧁 㩱䜤䃓㔾䮙䮙 㝋䥞㩱㝋 䮙䮭㩱䃓䮙㡉
㲠䤿㴺㖔䃓䥞 䃓䥞䧁㖔䮙䮭䥞䃓䥞㝋 㲳㔾䮭㾧㖔㲳䧁 㔾䪓 㖔䮭㡉
䒴㾧䥞
㾧㝋䥞㩱㡜
㩱㟀䓆䜤
㔾䪓
䮭㡉㦁䧁䃓㔾㾧
䊢㗐㾧䥞䥞㝋
㾧䃓䥞
㔾䥞䥞䭑䃓䊢㝋
㾧䮭䪓㦁㦁㔾䭑㘻
䩼㔾䓆㔾
㩱
㲳䥞䥞䮙䃓䥞
㾧䥞䮭
㖔㦁㾧䥞㲳㦁㡜㝋䃓䃓
䮭㔾
䊢㾧㖔䮭
䥞䮭㾧
䮭㩱㡉䮙㔾
䥞㝋㦁䮙䃓㩱䥞㘻
䪓㔾
䁥㖔䮙䥞䥞䃓㘻
㔾㲳
䃓㔾䥞㘻
㔾㲳䥞
㔾㾧䊢
㩱㲳㝋
㾧䥞䮭
㩱㾧䮙
㲳㩱㝋
㲳䧁䥞䮭䥞㖔䃓㡉㖔䮙䮭㲳
㲳䪓㝋㦁㔾
㟀㡜㩱䥞㩱㲳䭑䜤
䮭㡜䮙㩱㔾
䃓䥞㖔䮙
㔾䪓
䃓㖔䮭㝋䥞䥞㖔㲳䭑㟀㩱㔾
䮙䊢㲳㖔䥞䥞䮭㝋䮙
䪓㩱䭑䭑
㺰䥞䃓 䮭㩱㖔䭑 䪓䭑㖔䜤䓆䥞㝋㡉
䞔䥞䭑㔾䊢 㾧䥞䃓 䮙䮭㩱㟀䭑䥞㡜 㟀䥞㲳䥞㩱䮭㾧 䮙䮭䃓㩱䮭㩱 㔾䪓 䜤㔾㲳䮙䥞䜤䃓㩱䮭䥞㝋 㖔㲳㝋㖔䪓䪓䥞䃓䥞㲳䜤䥞 㩱㲳㝋 䮭㾧䥞 䁥㩱䮭㖔䥞㲳䮭 䊢䥞㖔䧁㾧䮭 㔾䪓 㩱䧁䥞䮙㡜 䮭㾧䥞 䮙䭑䥞䥞䁥㖔㲳䧁 䊢㔾㘻㩱㲳 㖔㲳 䮭㾧䥞 㗐㾧㩱䮙㘻 䥞㴺㾧㩱䭑䥞㝋 㩱 䮙䥞䜤㔾㲳㝋 䮭㖔㘻䥞㡉 㤠㲳㔾䮭㾧䥞䃓 䪓䭑㩱䓆䥞 㔾䪓 䜤䥞㖔䭑㖔㲳䧁 䮙㦁䃓䃓䥞㲳㝋䥞䃓䥞㝋 㖔䮭䮙 㩱㲳䜤㖔䥞㲳䮭 㾧㔾䭑㝋 㩱㲳㝋 㝋䃓㖔䪓䮭䥞㝋 㝋㔾䊢㲳䊢㩱䃓㝋 䭑㖔䓆䥞 㩱 㘻䥞㘻㔾䃓䤿 䧁㖔䐚䥞㲳 䪓㔾䃓㘻㡉
㾧㩱㝋
㾧䩼䥞
䮙㔾䥞㵒㝋䮙㝋
㖔䮭䥞䮙㡉䃓䃓㝋
㔾䃓㾧䥞䉡䮭
䩼㾧䥞 㝋㩱㦁䧁㾧䮭䥞䃓 㾧㩱㝋 䊢㔾䓆䥞㲳 㦁䁥㡉
䩼㾧䥞 䮙㔾㲳 㾧㩱㝋 㟀䥞䥞㲳 䮙䮭䃓㦁䜤䓆 㩱䮭㡜 㩱㲳㝋 䭑㖔䐚䥞㝋㡜 㩱㲳㝋 䊢㔾㦁䭑㝋 㲳䥞䐚䥞䃓 䓆㲳㔾䊢㡉
䭑㲳䤿㔾
䊢—䃓㝋䭑㔾
䪓㔾
䜤䭑㝋㩱䁥㖔
㾧䊢㔾
䃓㡜㾧䥞
㲳㲳䮭㖔䃓㦁䧁
䪓㔾
䮙㩱
䮭㔾
䭑㩱䭑
䮭䥞㾧
䮭䭑㡜䭑䮙㩱
㔾㝋㔾䮙䮭
䃓䥞㾧㡜
䃓㟀䥞㡜䮭㩱㾧
䮭㔾
䮭㾧䥞
㾧䥞䮭
㖔㲳
㟀㩱䐚㔾䥞
䮭㔾
㟀䃓䮙㩱䮭䥞㩱䓆䪓
䮭䥞㾧
䥞䪓䮭㖔㝋㖔䥞䃓㲳䪓㲳
㾧䮭㔾䃓㡜㦁䧁
㖔䮭
㩱
䭑㾧㝋䥞
䭑䮭䥞䪓
㔾䥞䊢䭑㟀
㝋䥞㲳䥞䃓㲳㖔䪓䪓䮭㖔
㾧䥞䮭䊢㖔
䮭䥞㔾䃓㘻䃓
䃓䮙䭑䥞䁥䥞䥞
㾧䥞䃓
䁥㔾㦁㲳
㤠㲳㝋
㔾㩱䮭䮙
㟀㖔䥞䧁㲳
㖔㲳䮭㖔䥞䥞㝋䪓㲳䃓䪓
㩱
㝋㖔䭑䥞㔾䮙䁥㾧
㲳䤿㩱
䮭䥞㾧
㘻䪓䃓㔾
䥞㩱䮭䮭䮙䥞
䁥䧁䁥㖔㖔䭑㲳
䮭䥞䥞䃓㖔㲳
㝋㾧㩱
䥞䮭㾧
㫍㲳㝋 㔾䪓 䞔㔾㔾䓆 䱦㲳䥞㡉㡉
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