“Mozher.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Yira looked tired.

Older than Kimia wanted.

“You always know.”

The sentence landed softly.

That was worse.

Kimia stared at the floor.

A dirty bowl sat beneath the desk. Someone had left dried broth inside it. The mundanity saved her from some larger reaction.

She breathed.

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

Yira's answer came immediately.

Kimia looked up.

Yira continued.

“Zhat's why I don't know what to say.”

The room seemed to slow despite the drug.

Kimia watched her daughter.

Yira was not Tarkhe. Not Kalgkur. Not Vehm.

She had no responsibility to manage Kimia's mind.

Kimia realized suddenly that coming here had done exactly that.

She had sought Yira as structure. A real person turned into a grounding technique.

The thought disgusted her.

“I’m sorry.”

Yira frowned.

“For what?”

“Coming in here like zhis.”

“You asked first.”

“Still.”

“You're not breaking anyzhing.”

“No.”

“You're talking too fast.”

Kimia almost laughed.

“I know.”

“And you keep looking at everyzhing like it's about to tell you a secret.”

Kimia looked at the manuscript.

“Maybe it is.”

Yira's expression sharpened.

Kimia immediately raised one hand.

“Joke.”

“Bad one.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then Yira picked up the pencil.

“You can stay.”

Kimia looked at her.

“If you want.”

“Why?”

“Because I was drawing blanks before you came in.”

“Zhat is not a reason.”

“It is for me.”

Kimia smiled faintly.

Yira turned toward the keyboard.

“Just don't help.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“You were zhinking about it.”

“I was.”

“I know.”

Yira played the phrase again.

Kimia listened.

The kilcane still moved through her.

Thoughts still came quickly.

The body still wanted motion.

But now there was music.

Six notes.

Pause.

Four notes.

Yira frowned.

Changed one.

Played again.

Kimia sat on the bed and said nothing.

This became the task.

Not governing. Not performing. Not explaining. Not solving.

Sitting in a messy room while her daughter tried to make ten notes behave.

Yira played the phrase again.

This time she nodded slightly.

Kimia watched.

The thought came that perhaps this too was an interview.

Someone saying what they wanted. 

Someone else listening.

Translating.

Adding something of herself without losing the original request.

Perhaps people did this constantly.

Children. Parents. Rulers. Subjects. Actors. Audiences.

Everyone improvising from incomplete instructions.

Kimia let the thought pass.

No need to make it philosophy.

Yira played another note, then another.

Outside the windows afternoon moved over Peshtul.

The Herald carried Kimia's public face toward millions.

Tarkhe would eventually come looking. The kilcane would eventually recede.

The Diet waited. Tilmuhl waited. Everything waited.

For the moment Kimia sat very still.

Yira worked.

And neither asked the other to become anyone else.