calligraphy
Linya is working on a massive flowchart-like diagram of a planned software project for Dr. Cheung. It's laid out in every color and in three dimensions with sprawl of its little writing that takes up most of her office and keeps fading out at the edges and in her shadow when she moves around, but reappears when she turns or approaches.
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I'm encouraging its dreams, she writes.
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Linya can't stop laughing for a solid minute.
It has achieved more than I ever thought possible! Those fools at the lilac academy will see when they're paying top dollar for front seats at its debut performance!
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No response afer several days, either.
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Conversations do that.
Linya has now written enough songs that stay put (as opposed to her aimless improvisational fare) that she has troubled to take an afternoon recording them for general dissemination to anyone who's interested.
She sends Ekaterin a copy.
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Conversations do sometimes come to natural ends, but Linya feels like she's working harder than she's used to on this one.
She considers the possibility that Ekaterin is too polite to tell her that she considers friendships this long-distance inconvenient. She's busy, after all, even without a garden.
That Ekaterin is too polite, she doesn't doubt; that Ekaterin doesn't want to correspond, she doubts some, but.
Let me know, she writes back.
And then she leaves her friend be.