Years later, after the Kshared had dwindled to a handful and the jars of leeches sat like sleeping legends on their shelves, children still played at the marsh, dipping toes where the water kept secrets. They whispered the word "kshared" like a charm, and older folk, when asked, either smiled tightly or looked away. The leeches remained—part pest, part priest—tiny arbiters of what a person could surrender and what must be kept to grow the self.