Simultaneous translation is a kind of disappearing. For six years Leyla has been a voice in two hundred earpieces and a name on no door, and she likes it that way. You hear everything. No one hears you. Day three of the ceasefire summit, 11:40 a.m. The northern delegate says, in his language, "We will withdraw from the river by spring." In her booth, half a second behind him, Leyla translates it cleanly. Then she hears the feed from Booth Two — the official channel, the one the southern delegation actually listens to — and the voice of Mr. Arman, her mentor, the man who recruited her, saying: "We will not discuss the river until spring." A slip. Even legends slip. Except at 2:15 it happens again, surgical, a single inverted clause that turns a concession into an insult. By the afternoon session, the southern delegates have stopped taking notes and started folding their papers, slowly, the way men do before they leave a war to resume itself. Protocol says translators report errors to the chief interpreter. The chief interpreter is Arman. Leyla sits in her glass booth above the hall, invisible, microphone live in her hand, watching peace mistranslate itself line by line — and realizes she is the only person in the building who heard both sentences.