She said it in the morning.
Not at the dinner. Not with everyone watching. In the morning, in the kitchen, when it was just the three of them and the east light coming through the window and the city doing its early thing.
She'd been building toward it for weeks. Nara had tracked the progression — the *na* that had become more specific, the consonants developing, the word assembling itself from its component sounds the way she assembled everything: with complete understanding before implementation.
She stood at the window.
She looked at the city.
She turned.
She looked at Nara.
"Nara," she said.
Clear. Complete. Both syllables. Both hers.
Not *na.* Not the approximation. The word.
Nara held the kitchen counter.
She looked at her daughter.
Two years old today. Standing at the ea
