Frida set the manuscript down, the final lines of the poem still vibrating in the quiet of the room. Her fingers rested lightly on the page. "Some people," she began, her voice calm but edged with steel, "treat history like a stucco wall—a rough surface that can be whitewashed whenever it becomes inconvenient. One fresh coat, and yesterday simply disappears."
Satoru leaned back, a faint, provocative smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He caught her eye, deliberately breaking the heavy solemnity she had cast over the table. "And others," he countered, his tone light but pointed, "conceptualize it as indelible stone, something carved once, heavy, and utterly unmoving."
Dmitri’s voice broke in, "Nothing made by human hands is beyond revision." A dry laugh escaped Dmitri's lips. He didn't look up, choosing instead to watch the liquid track against his glass. "Sooner or later, everything turns to dust. The stone crumbles, the paint flakes away, and the wall itself collapses. It all goes." The silence that followed wfeltas colder than before.
Frida folded her arms in a dismissive shrug. "And where exactly does such nihilistic thinking lead?" she asked, her voice tinged with a sharp impatience.
Dmitri finally looked up, his expression blank, his shoulders dropping slightly. "I'm not sure," he admitted quietly.
For a heartbeat, no one answered. Frida refused to let the uncertainty settle. "Whatever the universe does," she continued, leaning forward, "people in power have always tried to rewrite the past. They erase what embarrasses them, polish what flatters them, and stitch together comforting legends until the original story is almost impossible to recognize."
Across the table, Ying nodded in firm agreement, her posture straightening as she found her footing in the argument. "For sure—and that's precisely the reason many voices are needed to keep history truly alive. "That's why history must never belong to a single government, religion, ideology, or culture. The more perspectives survive, the harder it becomes for anyone to monopolize the truth." She glanced around the table.
Satoru drummed his fingers against the tabletop. "A beautiful ideal," he conceded. "But have you ever actually listened to a hundred competing voices at once?" He spread his hands. "It's hard to contend with the strident chorus of too many voices," Satoru interjected, his playful demeanor giving way to a more pragmatic, skeptical air. "Most people want a story that makes sense. A single narrative. A shared myth." His smile returned, though it had lost its earlier warmth. "Without simplification, societies don't merely become confused—they become ungovernable."
Frida’s gaze narrowed, her voice dropping an octave as she delivered the final challenge. "Simplified for whom?" she asked quietly. "And who decides what gets omitted?" She held Satoru's gaze without wavering. "Every myth has an author. Every monument has a sponsor. Every official history has an editor." She tapped the manuscript once. "If we never ask who's holding the brush, who's wielding the chisel, or whose fingerprints are all over the manuscript, then we're not examining history." Her voice fell almost to a whisper. "We're merely reciting it."
Satoru countered, "It is a strange paradox: in some ways we seem like independent actors, yet in other ways we seem like mere puppets."