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The assessment was harsh but not entirely unfair.James Blackhorse had always approached Navajo traditions with academic detachment—respect without belief.

“I need to understand why Harrington was killed,” Kari said.“That matters more than old family tensions.”

Ruth nodded, acknowledging the point.“Understanding why is good.But also understand what.”Her fingers worked the threads carefully.“Not all killers leave footprints, Asdza´a´ K’os.”

The use of her Diné name felt like an invitation back to something Kari had left behind.She didn’t reject it this time.

“What do you think killed him, Shimásání?”she asked directly.

Ruth was quiet for a long moment, her fingers still moving on the loom.“There are hungry things in this world,” she said finally.“Things that feed on disrespect, on boundary-crossing.Things that wake when the earth walks.”

Kari waited for more, but Ruth had seemingly said all she intended to.The silence between them was comfortable, weighted with shared history and understanding that transcended their different worldviews.

Ruth set her weaving aside and reached for a small wooden box on the shelf beside her.“Your hands are restless.They always are when your mind is full.”

It was true.Kari had been unconsciously tapping her fingers against her knee, a habit from childhood that surfaced when she was processing complex thoughts.

Ruth opened the box, revealing a collection of polished stones in various colors.“Choose one.”

The familiar ritual brought an unexpected smile to Kari’s face.When she was a child, during those weekend visits to the reservation, Ruth would often invite her to select a stone when she seemed troubled or unsettled.Each selection, Ruth claimed, revealed something about what the heart needed.

Kari’s fingers hovered over the collection before selecting a smooth piece of turquoise with veins of copper running through it.

“Interesting,” Ruth said, studying the stone.“Protection and communication.The same one you chose when you were twelve, after that argument with your father.”

“You remember that?”Kari asked, surprised.

“I remember all your stones.”Ruth gestured to a small shelf across the room, where a row of similar stones sat arranged by size.“I kept them for you.”

Kari rose and went to the shelf, touching the familiar pieces—each one marking a moment from her divided childhood.The red jasper from when she failed her first math test.The amethyst from the weekend after her first school dance.The obsidian from the day her parents told her they were separating.

“I thought these were just to calm me down,” Kari said, returning to her seat with the turquoise still in her palm.

“They were never just stones,” Ruth said.“They were a way to teach you to listen to your own knowing.”She took the kettle from the woodstove and poured fresh tea into two clay mugs.“Something your father never understood.”

Kari accepted the tea gratefully, its familiar pine scent triggering memories of countless evenings in this very room.“Do you remember teaching me to make yeast bread?”she asked, deliberately steering away from heavier topics.

Ruth’s face softened with the memory.“You were so small, your hands could barely reach the dough to knead it.”

“But you put that little stool by the table for me,” Kari said, the image vivid now.“The red one with stars painted on it.”

“Still have it,” Ruth said, nodding toward a corner where the stool sat, its paint faded but the stars still visible.“Your mother painted those stars.Said you needed something to reach for, even while standing on solid ground.”

The mention of her mother was gentle, connected to a happy memory rather than recent loss.Kari ran her thumb over the turquoise, feeling its cool smoothness.

“I haven’t made bread in years,” she admitted.

“Your hands remember,” Ruth said.“Come.”

Despite the late hour, Kari found herself following her grandmother to the small kitchen, where Ruth took flour and yeast from a cabinet.They worked side by side in comfortable silence, measuring and mixing, their movements a familiar dance despite the years that had passed since they’d last done this together.

As Kari kneaded the dough, the physical rhythm of it eased something tight in her chest.Ruth hummed softly—an old melody Kari recognized from childhood, though she couldn’t recall the words.

“What’s that song?”she asked.“The one you’re humming.”

“A weaving song,” Ruth said.“My mother taught it to me, and her mother to her.It’s for when the pattern becomes difficult and the mind needs steadying.”

“I remember you singing it,” Kari said.“When I was little.”

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