Rati

Rati learned two versions of direction in Batumi: the neat lines on a screen and the much more elaborate instructions his relatives gave from balconies. Neither was consistently right. He began drawing routes that included useful human landmarks, then made his first map application so complicated that his cousin Salome sent him a paper arrow instead of a review.

In Tbilisi he became good at building quiet interfaces and less good at switching them off. He loves the moment an awkward task becomes simple, but can mistake measurable improvement for the whole point. A long walk without a destination remains one of his most deliberate forms of practice, especially when he leaves the step counter at home.

Ana’s wandering atlas gives him a problem he cannot solve by making the route faster. They are building a map that offers possibilities instead of commands, while disagreeing about how many possibilities a tired person actually wants. Lile has brought the same question into the entrance archive: an interface should show uncertainty without abandoning the person trying to use it.

Salome tests his work with a frankness nobody else quite manages. In return, he helps her discover when a comic needs a cleaner screen and when it simply needs a different sentence. Their arguments usually end outdoors. Rati is learning to ask what somebody hoped to feel before asking what they clicked, and to accept that a useful afternoon may leave no data behind.