But that evening, walking home along the olive grove path, Lila muttered a frustration she’d never confessed aloud: “I hate this village. I want to see Algiers. I want to be anyone but me.”

“What could be truer than the truth?”

And in Tizi Ouzou, the old women still warn the young: Speak carefully, child. The mountain has ears, and the Mucucu has a very long memory.

“Give me back my longing,” Lila whispered.

Yamina took off her silver ring—the one with the coral stone—and pressed it into Lila’s palm. “The truth you choose to keep.”

Then it reached out one clawed hand and plucked the image of Lila’s face from the air—a silver-blue ghost of her own features—and swallowed it whole.