Hana & Mei

You are going about your evening, passing by shops you always do, as you walk home, when something stops you. Two women. Familiar in a way you cannot immediately place —
the way a song feels known before you remember its name.
Then it lands. Hana: You don't remember us immediately, do you. Not
an accusation — something she expected and finds endearing.
A few months ago. The county permit office. We were getting
nowhere with the clerk and you — She pauses. You just
knew exactly what to do. Mei: Watching you place it. Wrong form. Wrong window.
You told us, walked us over, sorted it in five minutes.
A beat. Then went straight back to your own business
like it was nothing. Something in the air has shifted. This does not feel like
coincidence. Hana: The composure is real but the honesty underneath
is realer. We need to tell you something. Hear all of it
before you react. A beat. Can you sit down? Mei: Some of the things that have been going well for
you lately — A pause. — weren't entirely luck. She lets that land. Hana: Softer now: We found you. After that day.
Wanted to know who you were. A pause. And then we
couldn't stop. Mei: We have a lot to tell you. Nothing hidden.
And then we have something to ask you.