[ kaveh smiles. the smile is like that of a hollowed fruit. it is not a pleasant smile. alhaitham recalls a thought. kaveh, amongst the carved statues of masters lining the walls of the kshahrewar hall, each marbled body forever suspended in the dance of ordinary existence. alhaitham remembers thinking thus: that kaveh seems as if one with the petrified storytellers in eternal narration, that their bodies, carefully sanded of blemish and fault is that of the light that surrounds the heart of the kshahrewar. that looking at the display, one forgets that stone, too, can be shattered.

alhaitham's fingers continue their ministrations. he runs his palm over the back of kaveh's hand, feeling for changes in the set of its curve. and then, finally, he lets him go, so that he can gently take his other hand into his. he begins anew: handkerchief, balm, and the first of kaveh's fingers, as cool as freshly fallen snow.

he says: ]

No. [ no is a sentence unto itself, a fully formed thought with no room for dispute. alhaitham gently rounds kaveh's knuckle. he continues: ] Do I seem like a man in need of more sentimentality in my life? If you wish to see more art in this word drawn in your style, with your skills, you will do it yourself, Kshahrewar.