Eleven people sat around the conference table. Stella had counted—not twelve, not a perfect integer. This pleased her in a way she couldn’t fully articulate.
Zhang Mei sat to her left, a streamlined agenda before her. To her right was a young archivist Freya had recommended from the University of Reykjavík, specializing in sensitive oral histories. The remaining eight were the “candidates” who had come forward over the past four weeks.
Not the families of victims. Those who had almost become victims.
“We should begin with protocol,” Zhang Mei said in her therapist’s steady tone. “Each of you chooses how your story is used. Anonymous attribution, pseudonym, or non-participation in public records. This is your right, not our generosity.”
A woman in the corner raised her hand. Chen Lu, bo
