Mara was asked to teach because she was careful, not because she wanted to show off. Being careful is important when making presentations, while being uncomfortable can make things awkward on video. That morning, she found herself in front of a small group of trainees, the bright fluorescent lights of the conservatory making everything look very ordinary. Naveen sat in the front row, his hands folded and eyes filled with excitement. Behind him, two interns took notes, and a visiting auditor watched with polite interest.
Mara started as she always did: with a demonstration. She projected a raw audio stream of a short video that had been edited to protect people's privacy. "This is what a problem looks like," she said, pointing to a gap in the sound wave. "The machine indicates low confidence here. The person listening will feel it as a drop or a jolt. Your job is to decide whether to let that jolt stay or to fix it carefully."
She played the clip at half speed. A kettle hissed, then the sound cut off; a chair scraping filled the silence, and the laugh that followed felt out of place. The room felt both small and very human. "If you leave this silence," Mara explained, "the person listening might remember it as broken. That could confuse them. If you fix it without acknowledging it, you risk creating a smooth connection that wasn't really there. The best practice is to do what causes the least harm, and then document it."
"How do you decide what reduces harm?" an intern asked. "Is there a guideline for that?"
"We have guidelines," Mara replied. "We talk to experts when we see signs of trauma. We try to intervene as little as possible. But sometimes, minimal intervention doesn't stop panic. It doesn't always help someone sleep again." She watched as the trainees took this in. This was the complicated part they all had agreed to face.
Next, she played the edited version. Mara had added a soft rain sound, synced the kettle's hiss with a gentle breath, and made the lullaby sound intentional instead of random. The clip flowed smoothly. The auditor nodded in approval. The interns wrote down: add anchors, log changes, suggest counseling.
After the playback, Mara pulled out a sheet from her binder and handed it to Naveen. "Write the explanation," she instructed. "Use clear language. We need three things: what you changed, why you changed it, and how you informed the follow-up care. Include dates, times, and your initials."
He wrote, his hands shaking a little. "Strengthened olfactory anchor, added rain sound to keep continuity, recommended counseling." He looked up at her. "Does it ever feel wrong?"
Mara wanted to tell him what the manuals avoided saying: sometimes. "When you make decisions, remember two things," she said. "First, don't be too sure of yourself. Second, document everything. If you make a choice you can explain later, you've done better than most technologies can."
Just then, a technician knocked softly and handed her a printout: DIRECTOR'S OFFICE: DEMONSTRATION ROSTER UPDATED. Mara felt a tightness in her chest; what she had been worrying about was now real. The auditor glanced at the paper as if it were breaking news. Mara opened it carefully.
"Conservator Mendel," the paper read, "selected to lead controlled stabilization demo for public outreach, Friday, 10:00. Please prepare a sample stream and a provenance panel. Security to be present. Counsel invited."
Naveen's eyes widened. "You? Really?"
She closed the binder calmly. "They wanted someone with a good logging record," she said. "Apparently, that's me." She didn't mention that the neat rows in the manager's spreadsheet didn't show the careful work she had written in her personal notes.
After the interns left, Mara stayed behind with Naveen and the auditor, letting the room feel smaller. "You will have to perform under observation," she said. "You will need to show that the work can be audited. That's good, transparency is important. But remember, performance and reality are not the same. The demonstration shouldn't turn art into a show."
He nodded as if he understood, but she could see the worry on his face. "How much do you tell them?" he asked. "About residue? About when you hum a line to keep the rhythm?"
Mara picked up an old ticket stub used for training and set it on the table. She touched the worn paper gently, familiar with its history. "Tell them the useful truth," she said. "Show them what a log looks like. Explain our counseling processes. If they ask about subjective residue, acknowledge it, but use formal language. We can push for change in the system, but we shouldn't expose our vulnerabilities in a way that becomes a spectacle."
She thought about the lullaby, the memories, and the photograph hidden at the bottom of her locker. Vulnerability, she realized, could be powerful; mishandling it could ruin careers and lives. Still, she longed to be more than just an actor in this outreach performance. If she was going to lead, she could make the demonstration more nuanced and possibly include a brief mention of the community aspect, like Lenka's presence. That would be risky, but it might reduce the sensationalism.
As the afternoon went on, the conservatory grew quieter, and Mara retreated to the back room where technicians archived raw streams. She needed access to older logs, files from the summer she had worked on and small donor records that might provide context. She opened the encrypted PERSONAL NOTES drive and reviewed her list: Hargreeves roster, relief drive Aug 12, box seventeen photograph, possible Lenka mention.
Her terminal pinged again. This time, the message was short and clear: JONAH VALE: REQUEST FOR INTERVIEW. Please contact regarding exchange practices. Background information preferred. He left a number. The ping felt like a small trap door opening.
Mara closed the message and stared at the screen. Jonah had a way of exposing hidden truths and creating public spectacles; he had sparked controversies and sometimes managed them. She felt torn between two choices: speak on background and influence the story, or stay quiet and protect the conservatory's work from being oversimplified. Both choices were risky.
She thought about Naveen and the interns, who would soon be tested under cameras. She thought about the lullaby humming in her mind when she wasn't paying attention. She remembered Lenka's old photograph and the chance to tell a story that recognized complex memories instead of blaming one restorer for theft.
Mara tapped her thumb against the desk and made a decision she would reconsider later. She wrote a brief reply to Jonah, neutral and careful: Thank you for reaching out. I can provide background information on restoration practices this week; any on-the-record comments will need to be coordinated with the director's office. She hit send and then typed a second message to the director's assistant: Confirming my availability to lead the demo; requesting that counsel be present and a quiet space to discuss complex provenance issues.
The conservatory buzzed around her, with machines, people, and the soft clinking of tools. Rules were made to set limits. Exceptions made the work possible. Mara had always believed that the right approach for empathy needed both. Now, she was about to put that belief on display, with an auditor by her side and a journalist's voicemail in her inbox, while the lullaby lingered in the background.
She closed the back room door and, for a moment, listened to the sound of her own breathing. Then she opened the PERSONAL NOTES folder and added a new line: Demo prep, focus on provenance & counseling; mention pattern of temporary volunteers, avoid personal residue details. She saved the file and, without really knowing why, hummed the two-line lullaby under her breath until it became part of her work rhythm instead of a reminder of longing.