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The fruit is crisp, sweet, and cool against the bitter heat of the tea. Anita looks satisfied by my compliance.

“Second,” she says, “tell me something from Vakutan culture that you actually like and do not have to rescue from dogma with a philosophical crowbar.”

I consider this while chewing.

“War chants,” I say.

Her eyebrows lift. “Of course.”

“Not only battle chants. Work chants. Travel chants. Mourning chants. My people use rhythm to carry effort across groups. Soldiers chant while marching. Builders chant while raising heavy frames. Children chant when learning histories. The rhythm keeps bodies together.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“It can be.”

“Can you show me one?”

I hesitate.

She sees it and withdraws the request before pride can force me. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

The admission surprises me.

I set down my cup and search memory. Not for a sacred hymn. Not one of the old war-priest invocations. Something older in feeling, though perhaps not in history. My mother used to sing it when kneading dense black bread dough, her voice low and rough while the rest of us stamped the rhythm with our heels.

I begin quietly.

The words are Vakutan, heavy consonants and deep vowel sounds shaped for broad chests and throats stronger than human ones. I sing softly enough for the room, not the battlefield. The chant speaks of hands working stone, of shoulders bearing weight, of laughter after labor, of fire shared when the wall finally stands. There is purpose in it, yes, but not imposed purpose. Made purpose. Daily purpose. The kind that comes from building something beside others and eating afterward.

Anita watches me as if I have given her an artifact more precious than anything in the shard.

When I finish, the kitchen feels warmer.

“That one,” she says softly. “That still matters.”

“Yes.”

“Not because the universe assigned it.”

“No.”

“Because your mother sang it while making bread.”

I smile faintly. “Because my mother sang it while making bread.”

“And because someday, maybe, you’ll sing it while making something else.”

The thought moves through me with quiet force. A home. A table. Anita with flour on her face. Perhaps friends arguing in the next room. A shrine that holds memory without becoming a weapon. Songs that carry work because work is easier with rhythm and grief is easier with witness.

“Yes,” I say. “Someday.”

She looks pleased, then suspiciously determined. “Teach me the chorus.”

“It is in Vakutan.”

“I have a doctorate-adjacent brain and terrible pronunciation. Let’s go.”