Window Keeper's Log: The Night Three of Us Looked at the Same Paper

Usually I line up two teacups in the window room — one for me, one for whoever's taking over. Tonight there were three. A mathematician from Hind, a textual scholar from Hellas, and a music teacher named Kishiura. All three looked at the paper far more intently than they looked at the window itself.

The mathematician said the symbols were grouped into clusters of two to four. Listening to her, I thought it sounded a bit like the thing I count every night myself — the row of lantern posts where every third one stands a little taller. She said, more than once, that a pattern existing and that pattern meaning something are two different things. That's a phrase I already know well, in this line of work.

The scholar from Hellas said the rock-like shape in the drawing felt familiar to him, then immediately walked it back: "That's just an impression." Kishiura was quieter still. She said plainly that nothing had come back to her clearly from the drawing. If she'd been called here to say, plainly, what she didn't know — that she could do. That line stayed with me longest tonight.

After the three of them left, I was alone in the window room again. I looked once more at the ordinary stone street on this side, not the Lit City on the other. Clearing away three teacups instead of two, I found myself wondering: if someone over there does a job like mine, and had been watching our side tonight, what would they make of it. What I don't know, I still don't know, tonight as every night. Even so, my hands cleared the cups the same way they always do.