On her second day she met the man they called the Prisoner. He sat on a bench beneath the tamarind tree, a lanky silhouette against the late afternoon sky, hands folded as if holding an invisible book. Children threw pebbles nearby and dared each other to touch the hem of his threadbare coat. People crossed the street to avoid his stare; some left coins by the tree. He did not beg. He seemed, instead, to listen—always listening to something only he could hear.

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