She looked directly at Sima—at the back of the room—and smiled.
Each one sat in the front row. No one spoke.
Sima nodded. He had spent fifteen years translating diplomatic crises, underground films, confessions. This felt different. The stage was bare except for a single wooden chair and a microphone.
The translator arrived late. Not late by the clock—he was punctual to the second—but late to understanding. His name was May Syma, though everyone called him Sima. He was the only person in the room who didn't know why they had all been gathered.
The translator's job was not just to interpret her words. It was to interpret the silence that followed.