The Conservatory was a sanctuary. It was warm, filled with the soft, humid air and the deep, earthy smell of soil and lush green life that reminded Chiara of her home in the south. She was meticulously trimming a particularly unruly leaf on a sprawling tropical plant, focused on the small, gentle task of nurturing growth.

I was seated nearby, observing the scene. My brain, moments ago, had been a machine full of amortization tables and asset transfer strategies. I had just finished an urgent ...