The office at the old biscuit factory had acquired a second desk—a narrow one, all curve and light—when Katsiaryna Lis moved her papers, her pencils, and her habit of turning numbers into kindness. A little brass kettle with a shy whistle sat between the desks like a small animal the room had adopted. On the wall: the portrait of Halina, the ledger of moods, a photograph of Uladzimir Artsybashev smiling as if someone had just complained about the weather and he had chosen to forgive them.