Kenza lays her hand on my shoulder and looks deep in the diamond. What does she see in it? What shape, what message does she perceive in it that I fail to see? She shuts her hand on mine, compelling me to lay it back. My stiff arm hardly manages it. The knuckles grate and the fingers, too closely tight, refuse themselves to open. All the warm of her palm is needed for them to come back to life and part away. Put on the desk, the diamond has lost a part of its symbolism. Nevertheless, a strange feeling remains. The crystal's sides are the reflection of omnipresent walls whose existence reveals a threat beyond each passing second. The event horizon is blocked up, we both know it. Hope remains however, even if more and more slender.