Elias asked, pointing again. “And that one?”

Her mouth tightened for the first time. She dropped her gaze and reached for another piece of fruit. “Not there.”

Elias pressed, “Not there meaning what?”

But already the question had slid off her. Someone at the far end had begun humming. Two others joined in, and just like that the table’s attention turned toward the sound.

He followed them through leisure terraces where low couches curved around warm pools and thin screens cast moving patterns over the stone. He asked about children. Few. He asked about old age. He saw no one truly old. He asked if they remembered parents, schooling, laws, money, war, weather emergencies, the sea walls he had watched rise during his transit. Some words struck nothing. Some sparked dim recognition and then drifted away before he could grip them. They knew pleasure, route, meal, song, sleep. They knew one another’s names. They knew to avoid deep shadows under the thicker groves when clouds crossed the sun. Once, when the light dropped and a dark stretch opened under an arbor, half the group changed course at once, smiling still, but too quickly.

Elias stopped and watched that with a slow chill under his ribs.

Not stupid, he thought. Cut down to a narrow range.