The quarters weren't much — two rooms opening onto a shared courtyard near the capital's eastern district, plaster walls instead of Tirtayasa's woven bamboo, a proper wooden door instead of a curtain. Their daughter ran the length of the second room three times before either parent had finished setting down their meager belongings, arms out, delighted by the simple novelty of floor space that didn't smell like a road.
"It's ours?" she asked, skidding to a stop.
"For now," Sekar said. "Provisional, remember."
"Provisional means for now but maybe forever if we're good."
Rama caught Sekar's eye over their daughter's head, and neither of them corrected the definition, because it wasn't entirely wrong.
He set the pebble house she'd insisted on rebuilding from memory in the corner nearest the window, exactly where she pointed, and didn't comment when she added a fifth stone to the family arrangement without explanation.
