The morning after the warehouse circle, the twenty-three small glasses stood on Ibu Laras's low table like a silent, green audience. No one had taken them home. The families had left the glasses there, as if to say, we will see which version of the truth the morning light prefers.
Maya arrived first, before Hana and Ethan, before the sun had fully cleared the warehouse's high windows. She had not slept. Her notebook, open to the page with twenty-three squares, each with an eye and a dot, was now filled with a second layer, in a different color, a thin red line connecting the squares where the green ink and the sensor had agreed, and a small, careful X where they had not.
"Twelve agreements," she whispered to Ibu Laras, who was already sweeping the floor, her movements slow and deliberate
