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John put the brush to it without ceremony. Short strokes. Angle changed twice to meet a lip the wrong builder had left in the mortar. Water. Air. Dry. He knelt to erase a little crescent his first pass had pretended not to see. He stood. He stepped back and let the room tell him if it had a complaint left.
The room had no complaint left.
He set the brush down very carefully, the way you set a tool you know will still be your friend tomorrow. He looked at the floor. Not at his work — at the floor. It was the floor again. It would take prints now and know what to do with them.
Fizz hovered slightly crooked, and then he landed and put one paw on the stone, very solemn. "You are forgiven," he said. "Do not do that again."
