[ i just don't think you would, ghost says, with the confidence and finality of a shut book. it's a book, kaveh thinks, that he can imagine in his mind. it's a book with a plain dust jacket, one with gray upon white upon whorls of black, patterns of which that draw in the mind and asks a question wrapped in an enigma. beneath the dust jacket, a red cover as deep and velvet as aged wine, embossed gently in a language that has yet to be invented. carefully manicured pages, plain cardstock made of something resilient and hardy, that, when torn, only ever allowed itself to be hurt much in the way of a lizard cutting off its tail. and then, by the end of things, a single, ribbon stained with blood, a single loop of it to bind the book shut.

the haravatat would adore this book, this book that refused to be written, this book that refused to be read. there would be entire seminars dedicated to its study and unraveling, its composition and its preservation. but kaveh is kshahrewar. ]

I'm glad you think it's good. It was my father's recipe. I'd have it written down for you, but I don't think you do much in the way of cooking - so I suppose I'll have to bring you some more again myself. [ says kaveh, as he spoons another mouthful of stew. and then, in that exact, selfsame tone: ] And I think I can see your perspective. The importance is the perspective, the perspective that you see it not as a possibility or a probability, but an impossibility that I would do what I say. I think I'm at a disadvantage in that I don't know where that perspective stems from. That's the root of it, I think. I can assert day and night that I am a man of my word, and that your story is something I would use to convince another of their bull-headed ways, but without understanding the root, the argument won't resonate.

[ kaveh considers this. ] What if I show you that you've happened to me, Ghost?