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Months later, the flashlights had long since been tucked back into kitchen drawers, and the news trucks had moved on to the next crisis. But the neighborhood was permanently altered. The children of Santa Maria grew up faster that year. They stopped playing the games that required them to hide, and they stopped trusting the shadows. The memory of the girl with the strawberry-scented hair became a ghost story used to keep other children close to the light.
Perla’s mother still sits on that bed, though the scent of candy and shampoo has long since vanished from the sweater. She has learned that a nation’s grief is a fleeting, shallow thing, but a mother’s grief is a vast, uncharted ocean. The posters are gone now, lost to the wind and the rain, but the image of that lopsided smile is burned into the collective memory of the streets. The silence is absolute now, a permanent resident of the alleys and the parks. The neighborhood moved on because it had to, but it moved on with a limp, forever marked by the five-second interval in which a child was lost and a world was broken.
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