At the same time, across the city, at the central train station on the south side, the larger one, the one that handled the long-distance lines, a different woman stepped off a different train.
Amira.
She was thirty-four now, and she carried it differently than she had at twenty-six. The angles of her face were the same she and Amara were identical in architecture, in bone structure, in the particular shape of the eyes, but everything built on top of the architecture had changed.
The way she moved. The way she held her shoulders. The way she looked at things, steadily and a little warily, like someone who has learned that the world will hand you exactly as much as you have prepared yourself to receive, and not one gram more.
She had a suitcase. One, medium-sized.
She had a baby.
