By mid-morning the street outside Lira’s workshop had filled with a cautious, uneven crowd. Some carried cloth-wrapped spheres or cracked panes. Others brought nothing but the visible strain of memories that had already returned and refused to leave. A few stood at a distance only to watch, faces carefully blank. The two workshop hands had cleared the broken stock and swept the floor. Fresh blanks from the crate stood ready on the side bench. Sera controlled the door, admitting petitioners in ones and twos. The barefoot boy ran messages and fetched water.
Lira worked at her bench with the lens resting in a shallow wooden cradle within easy reach. She began with ordinary commissions—simple drinking vessels, a small windowpane for a canal-side kitchen, a set of clear stoppers. The familiar
