The specific quality of yes.
Not the word — the morning after the word. The way the kitchen looked the same. The way the coffee tasted the same. The way the city outside was doing its ordinary thing and none of it knew that something had shifted and none of it needed to know.
She stood at the window with her first coffee and felt the specific warmth of a decision that had been approaching for months finally arriving in her body rather than just her head. Different registers. Both true.
Solène, beside her in the silver morning: *There it is.*
*Don't,* Nara said.
*I'm not doing anything.*
*You're doing the smile.*
*I'm always doing the smile,* Solène said. *You've stopped fighting it.*
Outside, the bridge. Both sides lit in the specific grey of seven am Kaelthorn, before the glass to
