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And the students? They stopped begging. They started teaching. Each one became a new pulubi of knowledge, carrying chalk instead of a cup, offering lessons instead of a plea.
The boy paused, then sat down beside her. “Teach me,” he said.
“Ah, Maya. You passed the first test.”
Years later, Maya herself sat under that same acacia tree, a book in her lap, a tin can at her feet. A little boy approached her with a coin.
“Curiosity,” he said. “The only entrance exam that matters.”
