The last box had finally been emptied. The new loft in Jericho still smelled of fresh paint and wood polish, but now, it also carried the scent of the sandalwood incense Arya had insisted on lighting "to clear the energy."

Laksh sat on the hardwood floor, leaning his back against the velvet sofa. He looked at the room—books arranged by height, his telescope positioned perfectly under the skylight, and his whiteboards mounted on the walls. For the first time since leaving New York, his space didn't feel like a temporary stop.