And the document between them.
He came around from behind his desk.
For the first time in years leaving the safety of it.
Sat in the chair across from her.
Eye level.
The way you sit when you want to be taken seriously.
Or when you want to take someone seriously.
“Tell me about your mother,” he said.
The girl sat in the chair across from him.
Both feet not quite reaching the floor.
“She was a programmer,” she said.
“She had a company.”
“Small.”
“But good.”
He said nothing.
“She built it for six years,” the girl said.
“Then it went bankrupt.”
“Overnight.”
She looked at him.
“She said it wasn’t an accident.”
He looked at the window.
“What did she tell you about me?” he said.
“Nothing,” the girl said.
“Until she was sick.”
“Then she told me everything.”
“What is everything?” he said.
The girl reached into her dress.
Pulled out a small notebook.
Worn.
The handwriting inside small and careful.
The handwriting of someone who knew their time was limited.
And wanted to use every page.
“She wrote it down,” the girl said.
“Everything she remembered.”
“Everything she found out.”
“Everything she couldn’t prove.”
“But knew.”
He looked at the notebook.
“May I?” he said.
The girl held it tighter.
“Not yet,” she said.
He nodded.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I don’t want anything,” she said again.
“Then why come here?”
She looked at him.
At the office.
At the view.
At the empire.
