The kitchen was warm, and the tea had gone cold, and Isis sat across from her mother with everything between them finally laid down. It was not dramatic. It was not a grand gesture. There was no swelling music, no tearful embrace, no perfect string of words that erased seven years of distance in a single breath. It was just two women in a kitchen at midnight, sitting at a table littered with cold mugs and legal documents and the debris of a battle they had only just won. The clock ticked toward morning. Somewhere in the house, someone was washing dishes. And Isis looked at her mother and realized she had been waiting for this moment for longer than she knew how to say. She started talking, and once she started, she could not stop. "I was twenty-three years old when I found the deed," Isis said. Her voice was steady, but her hands were not. She pressed them flat against the table to keep them still. "I was working at the federation archives, transcribing old governance records becaus
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