The week that followed settled into a rhythm of its own. Sophie wrote back to the translator the morning after the email arrived, a longer letter than the first one, more detailed, more certain. She described the press she wanted to build — not a business with quarterly targets and growth projections, but a small, careful operation that would publish four or five books a year, each one chosen because it mattered, each one given the time and attention it deserved. She wrote about the kind of editing she believed in, the kind of design, the kind of relationship between publisher and translator that was built on trust rather than contracts. She wrote about the Burmese novel as though it were already hers, not with presumption but with the quiet conviction of someone who had been carrying it for four years and was finally ready to set it down in the world.
