A quiet, late-winter freeze held the Hudson River in a suspended crystalline grip. Above the cliffs of Westchester, the sky stretched out in a pale, spotless shade of alabaster, reflecting off the snow-covered limestone paths of the south gardens. The fierce northern blizzards of early January had yielded to a steady, calm chill—the kind that crisping air brings right before the first underground shift of early spring.
In the south sunroom, away from the decommissioned server terminals of the west observatory, the morning moved at an unhurried, human pace. High paned windows caught the sharp silver light, casting long rectangles across a thick, hand-knotted Persian runner. The ambient quiet was filled only by the gentle clinking of porcelain and the soft crackle of fruitwood logs in the c
