She makes tea first.
I watch her move around the small kitchen attached to the sitting room, filling the kettle, getting cups from the cabinet, doing it all with the unhurried ease of someone who has learned that the most important conversations need a moment of ordinary before they begin.
I don't rush her.
I sit on the edge of a chair that is old and comfortable and worn in the specific way of furniture that has held a lot of people through a lot of difficult things. I look at the sitting room around me. More photographs. More old paper stacked on side tables. A bookshelf with texts in three languages, some of them very old, spines cracked and careful.
She brings the tea and sits across from me and wraps both hands around her cup and looks at me steadily.
"What do you know about Luna
