The morning Jihoon came to the east library was a good morning.
He arrived with his usual satchel and sat in his chair and poured his tea and they talked about the journal acceptance and about what the household's post-oversight situation looked like and about the plum tree, which Jihoon had opinions about and which Seonu had been noticing every morning for months.
The morning had the specific quality of a good morning that knew what it was: unhurried, genuine, the conversation between two people who had been through something significant together and who could now, in the aftermath, simply be in a room together without anything requiring management.
Seonu was glad for it.
He was also, underneath the glad, aware of what was coming. Not today. Not tomorrow necessarily. But the quality of the dark room presence was increasing, the specificity of it, the distinctness. He had been doing the morning practice for months and he knew the feel of the threshold and the feel of the space beyond it and what he felt in the practice now was something that was approaching the point where the choice would need to be made consciously rather than simply described.
He had not said this to Jihoon.
He had not said it to Yeonhwa.
He was carrying it quietly, in the way that he carried things he had not yet fully organized into speakable form.
After Jihoon left, he sat alone in the east library and thought about the quiet carrying.
He had told her the record, the two patterns, the direction he thought the right choice needed to go in. He had been honest about all of that. What he had not fully conveyed was the increasing proximity of the moment when the choice would need to be made. He had been describing it in the future tense, as something that was coming, and it was coming faster than the future tense implied.
He was going to need to tell her that.
Not yet. Not today.
But soon.
He went to the garden in the afternoon. The winter garden was the winter garden, familiar and patient. He stood at the plum tree and breathed and let the afternoon be what it was.
He sent a note through the book channel: I would like to see you. When you have time.
She replied within the hour: Tomorrow. Morning. Where?
He wrote back: The receiving hall. I will be there when you arrive.
She wrote back: All right.
She came the following morning.
He was in the receiving hall when she arrived, as he had said. She came through the compound with the easy familiarity of someone who had been through it many times and knew its specific qualities at different hours. She came into the receiving hall and he looked at her and she looked at him.
She said: "Something has changed."
"Yes," he said.
She waited.
"The morning practice," he said. "The dark room. The quality of the presence has been changing, more quickly than I expected. It is becoming more distinct. More specific. The approaching is accelerating." He paused. "I should have told you sooner. I was organizing it before saying it and I left it too long."
She took this in.
She sat down in the chair she had used at formal visits, the one that had become hers through repetition. He sat across from her.
She said: "How much time."
"I do not know. I have not told Mirae about the acceleration yet. I will. But I think the window is weeks rather than months."
She was quiet for a long time.
He watched her. Not with the usual analytical attention, not looking for tells or processing information. Simply watching, the way you watched someone you cared about when they were carrying something heavy.
She said: "I thought I had made peace with this. I thought I had done the work of orienting toward what continues rather than away from what changes." She looked at her hands. "I find that knowing it is weeks rather than months changes the quality of the holding."
"Yes," he said. "I understand."
"The grief is different when the timeline is specific."
"Yes."
She looked up at him. Her expression was the one he had seen only a few times, the fully unarmored one, the one that did not have any of the composed precision beneath it. Just her, in the specific way of someone who was in something difficult and was not pretending otherwise.
She said: "I do not know how to do this. I have been learning to be in things. I have been getting better at it. But I do not know how to be in this specifically. How to be with someone I am losing in a way that I can see coming."
He said nothing. He let her have the saying of it.
"I have been telling myself that it is not a loss," she said. "That what is real continues in a different form. That the direction continues. All of that is true. I believe all of that." She paused. "And I also do not know how to love someone I am going to lose in this way. Not lose in the way of ordinary loss. In the specific way of this situation. Where the person is still there in some form and also not there in the way they were."
He sat with this.
"I do not know how to prepare for that," she said. "I have been trying to prepare for it and I find that I cannot."
He said: "I know."
She looked at him.
"I cannot tell you how to do this," he said. "I do not know the answer to this question. I have been working on my own version of the same question, which is different from yours, and I do not have a resolution to it either. What I have is the direction I believe the right choice goes in, and the specific quality of gladness I feel that you are here, and the honest acknowledgment that neither of those things makes it easy."
She was quiet for a moment.
"I know you know," she said. "That is part of what I am trying to tell you. That the not knowing how is not something you can solve for me. That it is something I am in, and you are in, and we are going to be in it without knowing how for as long as we are in it." She looked at the coastal painting on the east wall. "I am telling you because I do not want to pretend to you that I have more peace with it than I do. You created the conditions for me to stop pretending. I am not going to start now."
He looked at her.
He thought about every honest exchange they had ever had, from the garden after the betrothal to the lanterns to the garden with the full truth to this room, this morning, this conversation that had no resolution.
He thought: she is being exactly who she has been learning to be. Completely in the difficult thing. Not managing it from a distance. Not pretending.
He said: "Thank you for telling me."
She said: "I thought you deserved to know."
"I know you did."
They sat in the receiving hall in the winter morning with the coastal painting and the winter light and everything they had built and the thing that was coming.
Neither of them resolved anything.
The crisis did not become manageable in the conversation.
But they were both in it, together, without pretense.
He thought: this is the lowest point. Not because anything has broken or anyone has failed. Because the situation is what it is and the timeline is what it is and the person I am with is honest enough to name what it feels like and I am honest enough to receive it without trying to fix it.
This is the lowest point and we are both in it together.
That is not nothing.
That is, in fact, something considerable.
She stood when the morning required it.
She looked at him at the door of the receiving hall.
She said: "I am still in the same direction."
He said: "I know."
"I want you to know that the difficulty of it is not the same as not being in it."
"I know," he said. "I understand the difference."
She looked at him for a moment.
"I know you do," she said. "That is part of why it is difficult."
She left.
He stood in the receiving hall after she was gone and looked at the coastal painting on the east wall and let the morning be what it was.
He was in the lowest point.
He was in it genuinely and completely and without pretense.
He was also, underneath all of it, still glad.
Still in it.
Still here.
Still the kind of person who did the right thing even when the right thing was not easy.
He was going to remain that.
He went back to the household's requirements.
The day continued.
He was in it.
He was here.
He was going to remain here, completely, for as long as he was here.
That was the whole of it.
That was enough.
In the afternoon he sent a note to Mirae: the quality of the morning practice has changed. The presence is more distinct and accelerating. I need to discuss the timeline with you.
She replied: Tomorrow. Uiwon.
He wrote back: Yes.
He sat in the east library until the evening and did not read. He sat in the chair by the window and let the afternoon do what it did and the plum tree be what it was.
He thought about what she had said: I do not know how to love someone I am going to lose in this way.
He thought: I do not know either. I have been building toward the right choice and the direction of the right choice is clear but the specific experience of choosing it, the subjective quality of what it feels like to orient toward your own receding, is not something I have documentation for. The record describes it from the outside. I am going to experience it from the inside.
He thought: and she is going to watch it from the outside, which is its own form of not having documentation.
He thought: we are both in something that neither of us knows how to do. And we are both in it honestly, without pretending to know how, without performing a peace we do not fully have.
That is the right way to be in it.
He thought about what Jihoon had said, months ago, at the beginning of the investigation: you tend to solve problems by building toward solutions. This is not that kind of problem.
He had been right.
This was not a problem that could be solved by building toward it. It was a situation that could only be navigated by being genuinely in it, with full knowledge and without pretense, and letting the situation develop along its own trajectory.
He was navigating it.
She was navigating it.
They were both navigating it honestly.
That was the correct form for this situation.
He thought about the piece, which would be published in the spring. He thought about the second section and the third section and the specific argument she had made about truth over the appearance of certainty. He thought about the courage that required.
He thought: she is doing that too. In this. Choosing truth over the appearance of certainty. The truth is that she does not know how to do this. She is not pretending otherwise. She is doing it anyway.
He was glad.
He was, even at the lowest point, glad for the person she was and the specific form of courage she brought to difficult things.
He was going to be glad for it for as long as he was here to be glad.
And after.
He was going to be glad for it in whatever form gladness was available after.
He prepared for the dark room visit.
He sat with the presence, which was clearer than it had ever been.
He said: I know you are almost here. I know the acceleration has increased. I am not going to rush this but I am also not going to pretend the timeline is longer than it is. I told her today. I told her weeks rather than months. She was honest about what that means for her. I am glad she was honest. I want you to know about the conversation. She said she is in the same direction. She said the difficulty of it is not the same as not being in it.
He sat with the presence.
He said: she is remarkable. The specific way she has been learning to be in things rather than managing them. You are going to come back to someone who knows how to be genuinely in something difficult. That is not nothing. That is one of the most important things I have been able to build for you.
He sat in the garden until the cold required going in.
He went inside.
He prepared for sleep.
He lay on the mat and looked at the ceiling.
He thought about the lowest point.
He was in it.
He was genuinely in it, not pretending it was something else, not managing it from a distance.
He was glad to be genuinely in it rather than positioned above it at a safe remove.
He had been learning, since the beginning, to be genuinely in things.
He had learned.
He was going to use what he had learned for as long as he could.
He slept.
In the morning there would be Mirae and the discussion of the timeline and more clarity about what the accelerating presence meant for the practical shape of the coming weeks.
He was ready for it.
He had always been ready for the honest thing.
He was going to remain ready.
The night came.
He was in it.
He slept.
Mirae confirmed what he had understood.
She had been tracking the balance state through the indirect indicators she had access to, the medical record from the Uiwon that served as a proxy, and the proxy had shown, in the week before the conversation with Yeonhwa, a significant shift in the rate of change.
"The acceleration is real," she said. "I would estimate four to six weeks before the presence reaches the point where the choice becomes necessary."
"And the choice itself."
"The choice of whether to orient toward integration or resistance." She looked at him. "You have been building toward the integration pattern. You have been saying so for several weeks. Has that changed."
"No," he said. "The direction has not changed." He paused. "I told her the timeline is weeks rather than months."
Mirae was quiet.
"How did she receive it," she said.
"Honestly," he said. "She said she did not know how to love someone she was going to lose in this way. She said the difficulty of it was not the same as not being in it."
Mirae received this.
"She is correct," she said. "Both of those things are correct." A pause. "She is someone who has been learning to hold difficult things genuinely. This is the hardest version of what she has been learning."
"Yes."
"And you," Mirae said.
"I am at the lowest point," he said, without drama. "The direction is clear. The choice is the right choice. And I am also, underneath the clarity, genuinely grieving the specific things I am going to lose." He paused. "I am trying to hold those two things simultaneously rather than resolving one by suppressing the other."
Mirae looked at him for a moment.
"That is the correct way to be in this," she said.
"I know," he said. "I am glad I know it. I am finding it harder than knowing it implied."
Mirae was quiet for a moment.
"For what it is worth," she said, "the integration pattern carries more than the physician's record describes. The record is conservative, as records tend to be about things that are not fully understood. What the record calls the contributions of the incoming soul becoming part of the original's character, I believe is more extensive than that. The six months you have been here have changed the quality of the life you have been living in ways that will persist regardless of the form of the persistence." She paused. "What you have built is real. What you have developed is real. What the integration carries will be real. I want you to know I believe that."
He received this.
"Thank you," he said.
She said: "I am also going to stay. After. I made that decision before the investigation and I am still making it. Whatever the household needs, I will be there." She looked at the folder on the table. "This work matters. I am going to continue it."
He was glad.
He sent her a note through the book channel that evening: I spoke with Mirae. Four to six weeks. I wanted you to know the specific estimate.
She replied: I know. She told me directly this afternoon. She said she thought I should hear it from her as well as from you.
He wrote back: That is very like her.
She wrote back: Yes. She is someone who understands that different people receive information differently from different sources. She gave me the same information in a way that was useful for how I receive things.
He wrote back: I am glad she is here.
She wrote back: So am I.
They were quiet through the book channel for a while, which was not awkward silence but the specific comfortable quiet of two people who did not need to fill the space but could also choose to be in it together.
Then she wrote: What do you need?
He sat with the question. It was the most direct question she had asked him in months. She was asking it in the way she asked everything direct: because she wanted the actual answer.
He wrote back: To be in the east library tomorrow morning. To talk about something other than the situation for a while. About the book we have not finished discussing. About whatever the spring issue of the journal looks like. About the plum tree.
She wrote back: Yes. All of that. I will be there.
He put the note in the notebook.
He was at the lowest point.
He was also going to be in the east library in the morning, talking about the book and the journal and the plum tree with someone who had asked him what he needed and then said yes to what he answered.
Both of those things were true simultaneously.
He was going to hold both.
That was, he thought, all that was available.
And it was, in all the ways that mattered, enough.
He was in it.
He was here.
He was glad.
You've reached the end of this chapter
The morning Jihoon came to the east library was a good morning.
He arrived with his usual satchel and sat in his chair and poured his tea and they talked about the journal acceptance and about what the household's post-oversight situation looked like and about the plum tree, which Jihoon had opinions about and which Seonu had been noticing every morning for months.
The morning had the specific quality of a good morning that knew what it was: unhurried, genuine, the conversation between two people who had been through something significant together and who could now, in the aftermath, simply be in a room together without anything requiring management.
Seonu was glad for it.
He was also, underneath the glad, aware of what was coming. Not today. Not tomorrow necessarily. But the quality of the dark room presence was increasing, the specificity of it, the distinctness. He had been doing the morning practice for months and he knew the feel of the threshold and the feel of the space beyond it and what he felt in the practice now was something that was approaching the point where the choice would need to be made consciously rather than simply described.
He had not said this to Jihoon.
He had not said it to Yeonhwa.
He was carrying it quietly, in the way that he carried things he had not yet fully organized into speakable form.
After Jihoon left, he sat alone in the east library and thought about the quiet carrying.
He had told her the record, the two patterns, the direction he thought the right choice needed to go in. He had been honest about all of that. What he had not fully conveyed was the increasing proximity of the moment when the choice would need to be made. He had been describing it in the future tense, as something that was coming, and it was coming faster than the future tense implied.
He was going to need to tell her that.
Not yet. Not today.
But soon.
He went to the garden in the afternoon. The winter garden was the winter garden, familiar and patient. He stood at the plum tree and breathed and let the afternoon be what it was.
He sent a note through the book channel: I would like to see you. When you have time.
She replied within the hour: Tomorrow. Morning. Where?
He wrote back: The receiving hall. I will be there when you arrive.
She wrote back: All right.
She came the following morning.
He was in the receiving hall when she arrived, as he had said. She came through the compound with the easy familiarity of someone who had been through it many times and knew its specific qualities at different hours. She came into the receiving hall and he looked at her and she looked at him.
She said: "Something has changed."
"Yes," he said.
She waited.
"The morning practice," he said. "The dark room. The quality of the presence has been changing, more quickly than I expected. It is becoming more distinct. More specific. The approaching is accelerating." He paused. "I should have told you sooner. I was organizing it before saying it and I left it too long."
She took this in.
She sat down in the chair she had used at formal visits, the one that had become hers through repetition. He sat across from her.
She said: "How much time."
"I do not know. I have not told Mirae about the acceleration yet. I will. But I think the window is weeks rather than months."
She was quiet for a long time.
He watched her. Not with the usual analytical attention, not looking for tells or processing information. Simply watching, the way you watched someone you cared about when they were carrying something heavy.
She said: "I thought I had made peace with this. I thought I had done the work of orienting toward what continues rather than away from what changes." She looked at her hands. "I find that knowing it is weeks rather than months changes the quality of the holding."
"Yes," he said. "I understand."
"The grief is different when the timeline is specific."
"Yes."
She looked up at him. Her expression was the one he had seen only a few times, the fully unarmored one, the one that did not have any of the composed precision beneath it. Just her, in the specific way of someone who was in something difficult and was not pretending otherwise.
She said: "I do not know how to do this. I have been learning to be in things. I have been getting better at it. But I do not know how to be in this specifically. How to be with someone I am losing in a way that I can see coming."
He said nothing. He let her have the saying of it.
"I have been telling myself that it is not a loss," she said. "That what is real continues in a different form. That the direction continues. All of that is true. I believe all of that." She paused. "And I also do not know how to love someone I am going to lose in this way. Not lose in the way of ordinary loss. In the specific way of this situation. Where the person is still there in some form and also not there in the way they were."
He sat with this.
"I do not know how to prepare for that," she said. "I have been trying to prepare for it and I find that I cannot."
He said: "I know."
She looked at him.
"I cannot tell you how to do this," he said. "I do not know the answer to this question. I have been working on my own version of the same question, which is different from yours, and I do not have a resolution to it either. What I have is the direction I believe the right choice goes in, and the specific quality of gladness I feel that you are here, and the honest acknowledgment that neither of those things makes it easy."
She was quiet for a moment.
"I know you know," she said. "That is part of what I am trying to tell you. That the not knowing how is not something you can solve for me. That it is something I am in, and you are in, and we are going to be in it without knowing how for as long as we are in it." She looked at the coastal painting on the east wall. "I am telling you because I do not want to pretend to you that I have more peace with it than I do. You created the conditions for me to stop pretending. I am not going to start now."
He looked at her.
He thought about every honest exchange they had ever had, from the garden after the betrothal to the lanterns to the garden with the full truth to this room, this morning, this conversation that had no resolution.
He thought: she is being exactly who she has been learning to be. Completely in the difficult thing. Not managing it from a distance. Not pretending.
He said: "Thank you for telling me."
She said: "I thought you deserved to know."
"I know you did."
They sat in the receiving hall in the winter morning with the coastal painting and the winter light and everything they had built and the thing that was coming.
Neither of them resolved anything.
The crisis did not become manageable in the conversation.
But they were both in it, together, without pretense.
He thought: this is the lowest point. Not because anything has broken or anyone has failed. Because the situation is what it is and the timeline is what it is and the person I am with is honest enough to name what it feels like and I am honest enough to receive it without trying to fix it.
This is the lowest point and we are both in it together.
That is not nothing.
That is, in fact, something considerable.
She stood when the morning required it.
She looked at him at the door of the receiving hall.
She said: "I am still in the same direction."
He said: "I know."
"I want you to know that the difficulty of it is not the same as not being in it."
"I know," he said. "I understand the difference."
She looked at him for a moment.
"I know you do," she said. "That is part of why it is difficult."
She left.
He stood in the receiving hall after she was gone and looked at the coastal painting on the east wall and let the morning be what it was.
He was in the lowest point.
He was in it genuinely and completely and without pretense.
He was also, underneath all of it, still glad.
Still in it.
Still here.
Still the kind of person who did the right thing even when the right thing was not easy.
He was going to remain that.
He went back to the household's requirements.
The day continued.
He was in it.
He was here.
He was going to remain here, completely, for as long as he was here.
That was the whole of it.
That was enough.
In the afternoon he sent a note to Mirae: the quality of the morning practice has changed. The presence is more distinct and accelerating. I need to discuss the timeline with you.
She replied: Tomorrow. Uiwon.
He wrote back: Yes.
He sat in the east library until the evening and did not read. He sat in the chair by the window and let the afternoon do what it did and the plum tree be what it was.
He thought about what she had said: I do not know how to love someone I am going to lose in this way.
He thought: I do not know either. I have been building toward the right choice and the direction of the right choice is clear but the specific experience of choosing it, the subjective quality of what it feels like to orient toward your own receding, is not something I have documentation for. The record describes it from the outside. I am going to experience it from the inside.
He thought: and she is going to watch it from the outside, which is its own form of not having documentation.
He thought: we are both in something that neither of us knows how to do. And we are both in it honestly, without pretending to know how, without performing a peace we do not fully have.
That is the right way to be in it.
He thought about what Jihoon had said, months ago, at the beginning of the investigation: you tend to solve problems by building toward solutions. This is not that kind of problem.
He had been right.
This was not a problem that could be solved by building toward it. It was a situation that could only be navigated by being genuinely in it, with full knowledge and without pretense, and letting the situation develop along its own trajectory.
He was navigating it.
She was navigating it.
They were both navigating it honestly.
That was the correct form for this situation.
He thought about the piece, which would be published in the spring. He thought about the second section and the third section and the specific argument she had made about truth over the appearance of certainty. He thought about the courage that required.
He thought: she is doing that too. In this. Choosing truth over the appearance of certainty. The truth is that she does not know how to do this. She is not pretending otherwise. She is doing it anyway.
He was glad.
He was, even at the lowest point, glad for the person she was and the specific form of courage she brought to difficult things.
He was going to be glad for it for as long as he was here to be glad.
And after.
He was going to be glad for it in whatever form gladness was available after.
He prepared for the dark room visit.
He sat with the presence, which was clearer than it had ever been.
He said: I know you are almost here. I know the acceleration has increased. I am not going to rush this but I am also not going to pretend the timeline is longer than it is. I told her today. I told her weeks rather than months. She was honest about what that means for her. I am glad she was honest. I want you to know about the conversation. She said she is in the same direction. She said the difficulty of it is not the same as not being in it.
He sat with the presence.
He said: she is remarkable. The specific way she has been learning to be in things rather than managing them. You are going to come back to someone who knows how to be genuinely in something difficult. That is not nothing. That is one of the most important things I have been able to build for you.
He sat in the garden until the cold required going in.
He went inside.
He prepared for sleep.
He lay on the mat and looked at the ceiling.
He thought about the lowest point.
He was in it.
He was genuinely in it, not pretending it was something else, not managing it from a distance.
He was glad to be genuinely in it rather than positioned above it at a safe remove.
He had been learning, since the beginning, to be genuinely in things.
He had learned.
He was going to use what he had learned for as long as he could.
He slept.
In the morning there would be Mirae and the discussion of the timeline and more clarity about what the accelerating presence meant for the practical shape of the coming weeks.
He was ready for it.
He had always been ready for the honest thing.
He was going to remain ready.
The night came.
He was in it.
He slept.
Mirae confirmed what he had understood.
She had been tracking the balance state through the indirect indicators she had access to, the medical record from the Uiwon that served as a proxy, and the proxy had shown, in the week before the conversation with Yeonhwa, a significant shift in the rate of change.
"The acceleration is real," she said. "I would estimate four to six weeks before the presence reaches the point where the choice becomes necessary."
"And the choice itself."
"The choice of whether to orient toward integration or resistance." She looked at him. "You have been building toward the integration pattern. You have been saying so for several weeks. Has that changed."
"No," he said. "The direction has not changed." He paused. "I told her the timeline is weeks rather than months."
Mirae was quiet.
"How did she receive it," she said.
"Honestly," he said. "She said she did not know how to love someone she was going to lose in this way. She said the difficulty of it was not the same as not being in it."
Mirae received this.
"She is correct," she said. "Both of those things are correct." A pause. "She is someone who has been learning to hold difficult things genuinely. This is the hardest version of what she has been learning."
"Yes."
"And you," Mirae said.
"I am at the lowest point," he said, without drama. "The direction is clear. The choice is the right choice. And I am also, underneath the clarity, genuinely grieving the specific things I am going to lose." He paused. "I am trying to hold those two things simultaneously rather than resolving one by suppressing the other."
Mirae looked at him for a moment.
"That is the correct way to be in this," she said.
"I know," he said. "I am glad I know it. I am finding it harder than knowing it implied."
Mirae was quiet for a moment.
"For what it is worth," she said, "the integration pattern carries more than the physician's record describes. The record is conservative, as records tend to be about things that are not fully understood. What the record calls the contributions of the incoming soul becoming part of the original's character, I believe is more extensive than that. The six months you have been here have changed the quality of the life you have been living in ways that will persist regardless of the form of the persistence." She paused. "What you have built is real. What you have developed is real. What the integration carries will be real. I want you to know I believe that."
He received this.
"Thank you," he said.
She said: "I am also going to stay. After. I made that decision before the investigation and I am still making it. Whatever the household needs, I will be there." She looked at the folder on the table. "This work matters. I am going to continue it."
He was glad.
He sent her a note through the book channel that evening: I spoke with Mirae. Four to six weeks. I wanted you to know the specific estimate.
She replied: I know. She told me directly this afternoon. She said she thought I should hear it from her as well as from you.
He wrote back: That is very like her.
She wrote back: Yes. She is someone who understands that different people receive information differently from different sources. She gave me the same information in a way that was useful for how I receive things.
He wrote back: I am glad she is here.
She wrote back: So am I.
They were quiet through the book channel for a while, which was not awkward silence but the specific comfortable quiet of two people who did not need to fill the space but could also choose to be in it together.
Then she wrote: What do you need?
He sat with the question. It was the most direct question she had asked him in months. She was asking it in the way she asked everything direct: because she wanted the actual answer.
He wrote back: To be in the east library tomorrow morning. To talk about something other than the situation for a while. About the book we have not finished discussing. About whatever the spring issue of the journal looks like. About the plum tree.
She wrote back: Yes. All of that. I will be there.
He put the note in the notebook.
He was at the lowest point.
He was also going to be in the east library in the morning, talking about the book and the journal and the plum tree with someone who had asked him what he needed and then said yes to what he answered.
Both of those things were true simultaneously.
He was going to hold both.
That was, he thought, all that was available.
And it was, in all the ways that mattered, enough.
He was in it.
He was here.
He was glad.
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