Monday mornings had a specific texture in the Celestia project — the accumulated weight of a weekend of thinking that neither of them acknowledged, arriving at the same table with the same professional composure and the same carefully managed distance that had, over three months, become its own kind of intimacy.

Nisha was reorganising her bag before the nine o'clock review.

This was a habit she had developed — the Monday morning sort, the resetting of the bag's contents from the weekend configuration to the work configuration. The weekend bag held different things: Aanya's spare change of clothes, the small first aid kit, the snacks portioned into the containers her daughter had strong opinions about. The work bag needed the laptop, the drawings, the specification files, the notebook with the good paper.

She was making this transition when the folded paper fell out.

It had been in the side pocket — she had put it there on Saturday afternoon without thinking, the way you pocket small things that matter without making a ceremony of it. Aanya had presented it to her with the gravity of an artist sharing significant work: a large sheet of paper covered in the sweeping strokes of an eighteen-month-old who had been given yellow and red paint and a wide brush and complete creative freedom. The result was emphatic and joyful and entirely abstract, and Aanya had called it *ghar* — home — with the certainty of someone who knew exactly what they had made.

Nisha had written the label in the bottom corner in her own hand, the way she documented everything: *Aanya, 18 months.* Then she had folded it carefully and put it in her bag because she had not wanted to leave it on the kitchen counter where it might get splashed.

She picked it up from the floor and folded it again and was putting it back in the side pocket when she heard the door.

---

Arjun came in at eight fifty-three, which was earlier than their usual start.

He had his folder and the expression of someone who had reviewed the materials over the weekend and arrived with positions formed — she recognised this version of him, had been reading it for months. He set his things down and looked up.

She was standing at her side of the table with a folded piece of paper in her hand.

Not a document. The paper was thick, the kind used for children's art, and its edges were slightly irregular in the way of paper torn from a larger pad. The colours at the fold — a flash of yellow, a streak of red — were visible before she put it away.

She put it away.

Arjun sat down and opened his folder.

They began.

---

The Monday review was a shorter format than the Wednesday session — milestone check, action item updates, anything requiring immediate decision before the week's contractor schedule locked in. It moved efficiently, as it usually did, the two of them covering the necessary ground with the ease of people who had been doing this long enough to have established a shared shorthand.

Nisha was in the middle of the phase three delivery confirmation when she reached into her bag for the specification file and felt the folded paper shift in the side pocket and slide forward and she adjusted her grip but not quite quickly enough.

It came out with the file.

Not entirely — not unfolded, not spread across the table. Just enough: the corner of it visible on the table's surface before she gathered it with the file, the bottom right corner where she had written the label in her own handwriting.

*Aanya, 18 months.*

She picked it up and put it back. The movement was smooth, unhurried — she had learned, over eighteen months of managing small emergencies, how to handle things without making them into events.

She continued with the delivery confirmation.

Arjun did not interrupt her.

But she was aware — with the peripheral accuracy she had developed over months of being in rooms with this man — that he had seen it. The words, the handwriting, the age notation in the corner. Visible for perhaps three seconds. Sufficient.

She finished the delivery confirmation.

The review continued.

---

At the end of the session, when she was organising her materials to leave, he asked.

Not in the manner of someone pursuing something. In the tone of ordinary conversation — the way you ask about the weather or the traffic, a question with the weight of small talk and the specific gravity of something that was not small talk at all.

"That drawing," he said. "Your daughter made it?"

Nisha's hands continued their work — the file going into its sleeve, the sleeve going into the bag. One beat. Two.

"Yes," she said.

Simple. Confirming without elaborating, the minimum necessary response. She did not look up immediately.

He nodded. She felt rather than saw it — the small movement of someone receiving information and setting it in its place.

He looked down at his folder.

She closed her bag.

The exchange was complete. It had taken eleven seconds and covered, on the surface, almost nothing. Underneath the surface it had covered considerably more, and both of them were aware of this, and neither of them was going to say so.

She lifted her bag onto her shoulder.

At the door, she stopped.

She did not know, entirely, why she stopped. The door was right there. The corridor was right there. The professional morning was right there, waiting to continue.

She turned back.

He was looking at her with the expression she had come to know as his most unguarded — the look that existed before the management of it, when something had moved through him quickly enough that the response had arrived before the control.

"She likes yellow," Nisha said. "Paints everything yellow."

She did not know why she said it. It was not useful information. It was not project-relevant. It was just true, and it was small, and something in her had wanted him to have one small true thing about her daughter without her being able to explain the wanting.

Arjun looked at her.

"That sounds right," he said.

Not *that's nice* or *how sweet* — the responses of someone filling space. Just: *that sounds right.* As though yellow made sense. As though he had heard something that fitted into a picture he was building and confirmed a detail he had already half-expected.

She left.

---

He sat in the empty room for a while after she was gone.

This was not unusual — he often stayed after a session to consolidate his notes before the next obligation claimed his attention. Today the notes were not why he stayed.

He looked at the space on the table where the drawing had briefly been. *Aanya, 18 months.* His own handwriting was different from hers — larger, more direct, the writing of someone whose thinking moved faster than the pen. Hers was neat and considered, each letter formed with the unconscious care of someone who had drawn things precisely for long enough that precision had become a reflex.

He had recognised the handwriting before he read the words.

He sat back.

He had been not-doing this calculation for a week — since the corridor on Thursday, since the name said quietly into a phone, since the specific category of emergency that had required a child to be managed at close range to a major project site. He had been holding the pieces without assembling them because assembling them required permitting a conclusion that he was not certain he was prepared to arrive at on incomplete information.

But the pieces had been accumulating regardless.

Her voice in the lobby of the reception venue: *my daughter is waiting.* The care with which she managed two phones on a Thursday afternoon, the ease of a person handling a situation they had handled many times before. A name — *Aanya* — said with the specific tenderness of a parent. And now: *Aanya, 18 months.*

Eighteen months.

He looked at his phone. Not to search anything, not to confirm anything. Just the simple arithmetic of a man sitting alone in a room with a number.

Eighteen months. A pregnancy ran nine months before that. Twenty-seven months total. Two years and three months.

He knew, with the precision of someone who had measured the distance between himself and that period of his life many times, exactly where he had been two years and three months ago.

He knew who he had been with.

He set the phone face-down on the table.

He looked at the window. At the city beyond it, ordinary and ongoing in the way cities were regardless of what was happening to the people inside the buildings that lined their streets.

He did not let himself complete the thought. Not yet — the evidence was circumstantial, the arithmetic was not proof, and he was a man who had been wrong before about things he had believed with certainty, and he was not going to allow himself another certainty built on incomplete information.

But he could not unform the question.

It sat in the room with him — patient, specific, shaped like a possibility he had not been prepared for.

*Could she be.*

Not the full question. Just the beginning of it. The part before the answer that he did not yet have and could not yet ask for and was not yet sure he was ready to receive.

He sat with it for a long time.

The city outside the window continued to be itself.

And somewhere across that city, in a bag over a woman's shoulder, a piece of paper painted yellow and red by a child eighteen months old was making its way home.