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The exhibition panels were larger on the wall than they had been on the table.

Leila knew this was not physically possible. It happened anyway. At the table, she saw the missed lines, the places where the paper joined, the section repaired after the wash went wrong. On the wall, other people might see the work before they saw the effort. The idea made her want to take it down and make one more adjustment.

Armitage stopped her with a look.

“Stand at the other end of the room.”

“I only want to—”

“I know. Stand there first.”

Leila went to the doorway. From that distance, the three pieces held together. The first followed the outward journey, the nine stops marked by changes in what she noticed rather than neat numbers. The second layered the bus interior over the town, interrupted by the dark shapes she had once considered damage. The third stayed in the room: objects belonging to three people, arranged without pretending they all occupied the space comfortably.

The hotel was recognisable as a kind of place, not as an address someone could find. The room number was absent. So were the identifying details Nina had asked her to remove. Mum's bag lay open on the bed, with the small photograph visible among ordinary things. Toby's house had its repaired roof and the gaps left by the trees he gave away.

Leila could see what was missing. She could also see that missing was not the same as unfinished.

Dylan came to stand beside her.

“The middle one's better now,” he said.

“Than before I ruined it?”

“Yes.”

“You're not obliged to say that.”

“I know. I liked the other one too. This one feels less like a drawing of a window and more like sitting behind one.”

She looked at him. It was exactly what she had wanted and had not known how to request.

“Thanks.”

They helped each other with labels. Dylan's underpass model needed a low table so people could see into it. Leila held the cloth while he moved the base. One corner wobbled, and they fixed it with folded card rather than treating the problem as a symbol of anything.

Esme arrived after her last lesson carrying sandwiches. She had learned to ask before putting food near the work. Leila showed her the panels, then waited while she looked.

“You've put the trolley in,” Esme said.

“Yes.”

“Does the trolley boy know?”

“He's not in it.”

“His influence is clear.”

Leila laughed, relieved by the familiar irreverence.

Then Esme read the statement. She took longer than Leila expected.

“It doesn't tell people everything,” she said.

“No.”

“Good.”

Leila leaned against the table, exhausted suddenly now that the physical work was almost done.

“What if people just think it's sad?”

“Some might.”

“What if that's all they see?”

Esme considered the panels. “Then they missed the cardboard house.”

The answer did not guarantee the right response from anyone. It reminded Leila there was more than one thing available to notice.

At five, Armitage asked everyone to clear tools and packaging from the room. The exhibition was tomorrow. The last-minute work had to stop somewhere, and she was making somewhere a time on the clock.

Leila took one final photograph for Anika, checked that no private work belonging to other students was visible and sent it with a short message. She did not apologise for the quality. She did not explain how much better it might have been with more time.

Anika replied later that evening: Looking forward to seeing it in person. You can tell me about the decisions when we meet.

Leila read the message on the bus. Decisions. Not circumstances. Not excuses. She looked out at the town passing behind her reflection and tried to let the work be something she had made rather than a case she still needed to defend.