If people allow the men in gray to gain a foothold there, more and more of their hour-lilies get stolen.
But hour-lilies plucked from a person's heart can't die, because they've never really withered.
They can't live, either, because they've been parted from their rightful owner.
They strive with every fibre of their being to return to the person they belong to.″
Momo was listening with bated breath. ″If you think I know everything, Momo, you're wrong.
Some evils are wrapped in mystery. I've no idea where the men in gray keep their stolen hour-lilies.
I only know that they preserve the blossoms by freezing them till they're as hard as glass goblets.
Somewhere deep underground there must be a gigantic cold store.″ Momo's cheeks began to burn with indignation.
And that's where the men in gray draw their supplies from.
They pull off the hour-lilies' petals, let them wither till they're dried up and gray, and roll their little cigars out of them.
The petals still contain remnants of life, even then, but living time is harmful to the men in gray, so they light the cigars and smoke them.
Only when time has been converted into smoke is it well and truly dead. That's what keeps the men in gray 'alive': dead human time.″
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