Runze's POV
Siying is in Grandmother's arms when my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Grandmother has been carrying her for the past twenty minutes, moving slowly around the sitting room in that particular unhurried circuit she seems to have developed: past the window, along the bookshelf, back toward the fireplace, past the window again. Siying faces outward, her dark eyes tracking the light with the focused attention she brings to everything, her small fist loosely clutching the edge of Grandmother's sleeve.
She has stopped needing to be held quite so constantly. She spends more time now awake and simply present — watching, listening, occasionally making sounds to herself that are not quite words but carry the clear conviction of someone who has things to communicate and is working out the mechanism.
