"No names," he said. "No plates. No plaques. Drift only. We do not raise a person. We raise the job they left. If a memory tries the ladder, we kick it down. If a crown swells like greed, I break it."
Her mouth changed weather, not a smile. "I will watch."
"I expected that," he said, and meant it.
"Tangles," he called, and a beetle rolled up its spool for inspection like a soldier opening a kit. The thread lay neat and oiled. He pinched a length. Sticky enough to grab, slick enough to return. "Good. Today you are yo‑yo. No heroics." It bobbed, pleased.
"Silk," he said, "three cones ready. Do not throw the first at the first bad dog." A prim buzz answered—we are not wasteful—and he raised his hands in surrender.
