Oxford looked exactly the same, which was the cruelest part. The scent of damp earth and old library books still hung in the air. For Arya, these things were symbols of home. For Laksh, they were now just markers on a map of a world he was about to leave.

He stood in the center of the University Quad, the wind whipping his charcoal coat around his knees. He had been back in Oxford for exactly four hours—three of which he had spent sitting in his car, gripping the steering wheel until his palms bled, rehearsing the lies he had to tell.