Elias Rhee moved carefully, almost as if he was carrying more than just a bag.
He placed the satchel on the counter with great care, his fingers spread out to keep it steady, as if the bag contained something important. Mara observed him, keeping her expression neutral. The conservatory was bright and well-organized, with large glass panels that kept visitors at a respectful distance. Behind the counter, a small sign listed the steps to follow: Verify ID. Confirm items. Sign transfer form. Offer counseling referral.
Elias took out his ID, a city-issued card with his name and a faint city emblem. He wore a practiced smile, one that looked like an apology without words. He read the transfer agreement as if it were a set of instructions he had been given but didn't fully understand. He signed with a precise stroke and returned the pen to its place. The clerk nodded and stamped the form, sending the packet off as if it were now ready to be transported.
"Stabilization complete," Mara said, following the standard procedure. Her voice remained steady. "We adjusted a few things. There are some emotional remnants we noted. We suggest a twenty-four-hour cooling-off period. Counseling information is on the back of your receipt."
Elias's grip tightened on the satchel. "Thank you," he said quietly. He didn't ask about the lullaby or the bruise on Mara's arm. He had a list of questions in his mind, but they felt too personal, like opening a wound in the wrong way.
He touched the corner of the packet gently, as if hoping it could change the outcome. "Do you ever wonder," he asked before he could stop himself, "what happens to the people who receive these? Do they keep the good feelings for themselves, or does it change into something else?"
Mara felt the weight of his question. She could respond with facts, like policies, counseling, and follow-ups, or in a more personal way: something remains. "It becomes experience," she replied. "How someone holds onto it depends on them, their situation, and the connections we leave behind. We try to avoid harm, but we can't promise that someone won't get hurt."
He swallowed hard. Up close, his face showed signs of stress, softened by tiredness. There was a darkness under his eyes that wasn't just from lack of sleep; it carried the burden of having managed plans that didn't work out. He had come to the conservatory because he wanted to offer the city something better than just a cold apology.
"Did you offer it because of the project?" Mara asked, straightforwardly, like someone who writes reports needs to be. She wasn't asking for a confession; she wanted a fact.
He nodded. "There was a seawall design. We miscalculated a frequency in the piles. The error caused people's homes to flood. I've been… trying to give away the day that saved me, hoping that sharing it might change how I remember what I did."
He said it plainly, without drama. Mara watched as he absorbed his own words. The conservatory smelled faintly of citrus and solvent; the orange peel in the packet caught the afternoon light, looking like a small treasure. Elias's fingers hovered over it but then withdrew.
"You believe memory can shift responsibility," Mara observed.
"I thought it could share comfort," he corrected. "Maybe that's vain. Maybe it's a superstition. Or maybe I was just tired of being the only one who had to remember that day."
His voice dropped on the last word, as if he could smooth over the jagged parts of his past just by naming them carefully. Mara realized he wasn't looking for forgiveness; he wanted a place where his burden could be understood differently.
After completing the formalities, there was an awkward silence that the conservatory's quiet buzz couldn't fill. Elias placed the satchel between them, making it seem like a third person was present at the counter. He touched the edge of the packet and looked up.
"Would you like to grab a coffee?" he asked, impulsively. "Just for twenty minutes. I'd like to hear, if you're open to it, what it was like from your perspective. If you have time. I don't want to impose."
The question felt like a small risk. It wasn't something a client would usually say to a conservator, professional boundaries were usually clear, but his tone didn't feel calculated. It was an apology seeking a human connection.
To her surprise, Mara didn't say no. She had thought about refusing and maintaining boundaries, imagining the conservatory as a place untouched by messy feelings. Yet, the lullaby hummed quietly within her, and the memory of the orange stayed with her. She felt a spark of curiosity about the man who had given away his summer.
"Twenty minutes," she agreed, keeping it official. "There's a café two doors down. They only take cash. It'll be quick."
He let out a breath, visibly relaxing. "Thank you," he replied, gathering the satchel like someone who had finally been granted permission to carry something significant.
At the café table, steam rose from two cups, creating a private space around them. The street outside blurred into a soft mix of umbrellas and neon lights. The client and the conservator began a small ritual: two people sharing breaths and unspoken truths over lukewarm espresso.
"What was it like when you were working on it?" Elias asked after some initial small talk. "Did it feel like a movie, or was it more… real?"
Mara chose her words carefully, like she picked her tools for repairs. "It felt like stepping into someone's home where you were allowed to put things back in order. But you have to be gentle. People's routines are layered with small rules. I smoothed a rain cue, strengthened a scent connection, and made a lullaby line clearer. Those are the technical aspects."
"And did you" He paused, then tried again. "Did you ever feel like you were a part of it? Like you were living it?"
Mara considered her honest answer. She imagined writing it down in a private file, where it could be organized and categorized, but she knew that sharing feelings could be risky. "Sometimes the work leaves a mark," she said carefully. "We record it. We suggest cooling-off periods. The machines don't capture impressions. People take them home with them."
He nodded, taking in her response like someone studying a map. "When I first read the stream," he said quietly, "I kept thinking the woman saved me in some small, non-historical way. She made breakfast while the storm was coming and offered small kindnesses that stopped me from falling apart. Seeing the restored version felt like touching a new truth. I wondered if giving it away would let someone else hold that truth, instead of letting it weigh me down."
Mara watched him break down the conversation into smaller pieces, admissions, explanations, hopes. The child's drawing lay between them under a thin sheet of plastic. She picked it up with gloved fingers, more out of courtesy than necessity. The house, the sun, the uneven smile of a child's drawing all felt like valuable items. She traced the pencil line with her thumb, sensing the energy of another person's hand.
"Do you expect her to be real?" she asked finally. It wasn't just a factual question. It was a test of how he viewed Lena. Would he insist she was a single truth, or would he accept that she could be a mix of possibilities?
He paused. "I want her to be real," he said. "I don't like the thought of loving something that might be just a collection of pieces. But if she is made of many parts, I still want to know where they came from. I want to find what was true in it." His tone was steady, full of curiosity that could lead to action.
Mara found herself sharing something she hadn't planned to. "Sometimes kindness isn't owned by one person," she explained. "It circulates. People take on different roles at different times. We weave memories together from what people have left behind. That doesn't make the feeling fake; it makes it shared."
He thought about this, then smiled slightly, as if feeling relieved. "I guess I offered it because I wanted that sharing to happen intentionally," he said. "To make me feel less alone with the memory of what went wrong."
They sat together, trying to balance an equation neither of them fully understood. Around them, the café buzzed with other lives and their own small, private stories. Mara realized she was grappling with new questions: about her work, about her role, and about how policy language meets human needs. Elias's presence reminded her that systems were built by people acting out of fear as often as hope.
When they stood to leave, he held the satchel close, as if it were a warm animal. Mara carefully placed the packet into a padded sleeve and felt the small ritual come to an end. As she handed it back at the counter, the evening light filtered in differently, and for a moment, she saw him not just as a client, but as someone trying to reshape his past into a future he could accept.
He took the packet, paused, and quietly said, "Thank you, Mara. For doing the hard work."
She didn't respond with anything grand. She simply nodded. There was appreciation in being recognized, and a cautious feeling that their relationship had grown beyond a simple transaction. She had agreed to twenty minutes for reasons she couldn't yet define, and it felt like a small risk shared by both of them.
As he walked away, his shoulders relaxed a bit. Mara watched him leave, feeling the faint trace of the lullaby still present on her forearm.