Nothing that mattered ever made it into a ledger. It happened in the back room, and I was only ever near enough to smell it, never close enough to hear. Low light on wood that's been polished too many times to still look new. Honey in glasses nobody drank. Saffron in the air before anyone had said a word, like the room itself was clearing its throat. Figs and supari left out on the table, untouched, sitting there like a warning not to rush. By the time whatever got decided was decided, it was just sandalwood and oud, worked so deep into the furniture I don't think it will ever come out. No minutes. One line, unsigned, that I copied down because I didn't trust myself to remember it exactly: power was never announced. It was simply accepted before the meeting began. I've sat in enough rooms since to know that line is true more often than I'd like.
