Sarada collected trinkets and toys: a tiny rocking horse from the Grass, and from Sand matching silk shawls for mother and daughter. She could map the continent, a chart of the migration of a rare bird. A season to nest in spring, yet always the wandering. She grew; his peregrination expanded. Once, an exquisite painting of the land beyond Lightning, a drum shipped from Mist and arriving at the same time as Papa. Her datapoints grew sparser apart. Mama's face was a map too, a seismograph whose peaks dampened with every disturbance. Eventually she stopped; his world never stopped growing.