She almost smiles. “Honest.”
“Yes.”
“Permanent,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“And you think saying it changes something.”
“It does.”
“How?”
“It removes ambiguity.”
She looks back at me. “There wasn’t any ambiguity.”
“There was silence,” I correct.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I say. “It’s worse.”
She closes one of the books in front of her. “I’m staying.”
“Yes.”
“I know what that means now.”
“Yes.”
“I knew parts of it before.”
“Yes.”
“Not all of it.”
“No.”
She exhales slowly. “I know now.”
“Yes.”
I look at the books she has opened. History. Architecture. Foundations. “You’re studying structures.”
“I’m studying what lasts,” she corrects.
I nod once.
“You don’t build for permanence,” she says.
“I build for function.”
“And permanence is a byproduct.”
“Yes.”
“That’s inefficient.”
