The file on Nael's desk says five generations. Most inheritances resolve within two or three: the truth either gets said or it doesn't, and if it doesn't, the next person carries it in a slightly altered form. Five generations means the original context has been worn smooth. What Sof carries is the shape of an uncompleted correction without the content that would fill it.
Nael has been doing this work for eight years. She has seen five-generation cases before. They are harder to close.
Sof is 38. She is precise, says what she means, and the problem, as she has explained it across three sessions, is a reflex: she corrects people on small things, and when she turns out to be wrong, she stays wrong. She knows she's wrong. She just cannot locate the second part after the first.
"You know what the first part was, " Nael says.
"Someone said something was true that wasn't, " Sof says.
"Before that, " Nael says.
Sof is quiet for a moment. Then: "Someone loved someone very much."
"Yes, " Nael says. "The completion isn't always a correction." She opens the desk drawer and takes out a blank form, the standard intake form with all the fields left empty. She pushes it across the desk. "Write what needs to be said."
Sof picks up the pen.
Nael watches her write and does not read what she writes.