Happiness. She wondered what it felt like. Her grandmother would speak of it sometimes, the things she remembered from her own youth, as the child would sit and listen in awe. Sometimes, her grandmother even got water to form in her eyes - something called “kyring,” the girl recalled, a process quite different than the regular medical orb water-formation they taught about in school - and they’d have to take her away for her injections again.
        None of the little girl’s friends knew what kyring was. It was a little secret the girl heard from her grandmother; a forbidden word she kept only to herself.
         “Happiness was the easiest to take away first,” her grandmother would always say, “but the sadness that still lingers in my system is a different story. They fixed your generation’s systems, but the sadness in me will always thrive as long as they have my happiness.”
        What a strange idea, the little girl would think. Two forbidden words, and a relationship.
        She always yearned for more. For stories. For answers. But she knew that if she ever asked, the government’s doctors would be there in a split second to take those stories away.