Mara reset the timer and tried to push the memory of the orange out of her mind by focusing on something technical: calibrating equipment, the best angle for the spectrometer when it scanned citrus oils. As the minutes ticked by, they felt like small judgments. Ninety seconds turned into sixty, and Mara smoothed her hands over the bench, as if trying to flatten her anxiety.
The conservatory had its rules written down, but the real work was done by people who learned to trust lists. Intake, diagnosis, stabilization, sensory calibration, verification of details, logging sources. Check each box, sign your name, stamp it. The software made the process feel like a formal approval. In staff meetings, Ana Qureshi shared the overall statistics, fewer assaults, calmer neighborhoods, and the data painted a picture of a city that had learned to be kinder to itself.
Mara realized that kindness could be complicated in real life.
Naveen stood at the edge of her bench, looking nervous and eager, his shoulders tensed and his hands fidgeting. He had the bright-eyed hopefulness of someone who still believed everything could be neatly recorded.
"When does interpolation stop?" he asked before she could even speak. He was staring at the waveform on her screen like it was the most fascinating thing ever. "If you add a breath here or adjust the lullaby's rhythm there—when does it go from fixing to making something fake?"
Mara tapped on the visualizer. The rain sound that had been missing left a quiet space where there should have been warmth. Machines could recognize that silence and label it as 'low confidence.' But it was up to people to decide whether to leave the silence as an honest gap or fill it with something that made sense.
"We stop when we still have consent and transparency," she answered firmly, believing that clear answers sounded better. "We add texture to prevent confusion or re-traumatization. We record it as provenance. We refer the person to counseling. We don't create a life."
"You log the reasons why?" Naveen asked, surprised.
"Absolutely," Mara said, just softly enough to feel it was a truth. She scrolled through the provenance panel: olfactory anchor enhanced; breath pattern adjusted; lullaby melody smoothed out. Each change had a standard reason: to maintain continuity, to reduce trauma triggers, to improve orientation. The city preferred clear reasons. Checkboxes helped calm the auditors.
She played back the edited scene at half speed until the laugh lines appeared like a pattern. The woman, Lena, a name that felt warm, tilted her head in the soft kitchen light and hummed the lullaby again. Mara could almost see how that simple hum turned an everyday moment into something emotionally significant. In the conservatory, those moments kept people from falling into panic or sadness. Outside, they became the foundation for emotional connections.
Naveen stepped closer, as if being near her would help him learn. "Do you ever worry," he asked quietly, "that the person who receives it might fall in love with something you changed? That we're creating someone to be loved?"
Mara closed the viewer and let the silence speak. That question had been around longer than their program; it was the same ethical dilemma that came with any technology that changed feelings. "That's why we document everything," she finally replied. "And provide counseling. And recommend cooling-off periods. And follow up." Saying the list made her feel like she was reciting a spell, not a solution.
Without realizing it, her thumb brushed against a light bruise on her forearm, it had been there since the morning session, a faint half-moon shape she couldn't explain. She had logged it as subjective residue—an entry for a private file, but she hadn't included the lullaby's phrase in the public notes. Writing that down felt like betraying something personal that the woman in the video had shared. But leaving it out could feel like dishonesty.
A ping on her computer broke the room's quiet. It read: DIRECTOR REQUEST: OUTREACH DEMONSTRATION. Please prepare a demonstration on protocol integrity, highlighting provenance logging and counseling referrals. Select candidate restorers.
Mara felt the words settle in her mind like a small stone dropped in water. Outreach demonstrations were like performances with punchlines. They showcased neat diagrams, checklists, smiling interns, and a therapist waiting off-stage. They didn't show the nights spent crafting a breath to ease a recipient's nightmare. They didn't show the tremor in a conservator's voice when the lullaby pressed against her heart.
Naveen leaned over to read her screen. "They want us to be on stage," he said.
"And we will be," Mara replied. "It's both an opportunity and a risk." She leaned forward and opened the summer's draft report. The edits looked organized in a list. For each adjustment, she had provided a policy reason. For the bruise, she had entered the standard recommendation: cooling period; keep under supervision; refer to counseling. The words were correct, but she knew they weren't enough.
"What will you say if they ask if restorers ever add personal touches?" Naveen's voice dropped to a whisper, meant for the bench, the machines, and the small spaces where truth wasn't political yet. "What if they ask if you hummed that line?"
Mara pictured the public square: Ana Qureshi at a podium, cameras rolling, council members ready for soundbites. She imagined a headline hinting at dishonesty, an opinion piece about manipulative technology, a clip showing a conservator caught mid-edit. There were real people on the other side of those clips, recipients who felt more at ease, donors who believed they had done something meaningful, but headlines often ignored complex details.
"You share what is true and what helps the city maintain trust," she answered. "You don't lay out everything that hurts you."
He let her words linger in the air. The conservatory smelled like solvent and orange oil, a mix that made her throat feel lined with citrus and lacquer. She sealed the packet again, a motion she did automatically, and tucked the intake sheet back into its sleeve. The municipal signature felt like an official blessing. The artifacts were small and organized, the orange peel, the child's drawing, the vial of salt, each a tangible connection the recipient could hold.
There was a soft click at the door, and the hallway filled with the sound of someone approaching. The timer on her desk counted down to thirty minutes. Mara quickly ran a final diagnostic, her fingers moving across the console with the practiced ease of someone who had to create beauty from pain.
The door opened wider, and a man stepped in holding a shallow bag. He moved like someone who had learned to blend in until he felt he deserved to be noticed. He had the careful, apologetic demeanor of someone who had tried to make amends in the wrong way.
Mara's throat tightened. For a moment, she saw him as a recipient, a file name, and a person who had given up his best summer to try to fix things. She tucked her hands behind her back and walked to the counter, her professional expression in place. Her heart raced against her wrist, echoing the rhythm she had once used to steady a microphone before speaking out.
He placed the bag on the counter. The orange peel shone through a waxed corner like a glowing ember. Mara felt the lullaby beneath her teeth, faint but persistent. She reached for the padded packet, her fingers steady, remembering an old rule: don't tell them what became of their summer in you.
As she reached for the envelope and her fingers touched the archival sleeve, his gaze lifted and locked onto the inside of her forearm.