She could emphasize rules, convert curiosity into paperwork, stamp it approved or denied like a bored customs officer. She could tighten the boundaries, turn the room into a padded cell with a syllabus taped to the wall. She could lean harder on credentials, history, lineage, polish the trophies and hope no one noticed dust settling on them. Or she could listen. She felt as though standing at a quiet crossroads, though “quiet” was misleading, a feedback squeal only dogs hear.

Listening didn’t mean handing over the keys, it meant remembering why she had the keys in the first place. Not because she knew more, any modern phone knows more, but she’d gone deeper, past the first layer and into bedrock. Not because she was older, time passes for everybody, but because she’d stayed in the room after the party lights went out and the floor needed sweeping.