The lamp on the desk.
The diary open.
A small weight against his arm.
"Papa," she said. "Did you always know what you wanted?"
He was quiet for long enough that she looked up at him.
"No," he said. "I spent a long time knowing what everyone else needed and calling that enough."
She didn't fully understand. He could tell by the way she tilted her head — the particular angle that meant she was filing it for later, for when she was old enough to feel the weight of it.
He turned the page.
And the story continued.