Katana seems to be getting ready to leave.
Her chair shifted slightly, scraping against the floor with a soft sound that drew my attention.
She was gathering herself now: her hands moving to straighten her napkin, her posture shifting, her shoulders squaring as if preparing for something.
She had the same quiet focus she'd given her empty plate, the same deliberate care in every movement.
And she still hadn't looked at me even once.
She was not usually so quiet.
In fact, I suspect she was starting to like me a lot.
It wasn't the kind of thing I could prove. It was just a feeling, a quiet accumulation of small moments that had built up over time until they became something I couldn't ignore.
She used to speak to me constantly.
Not just when necessity demanded it, or when there was information to exchange or plans to discuss.
She treated me the way an older sister might treat a younger brother she was fond of.
