The first light of dawn filtered through canvas tarps strung above the east wing's courtyard, where carpenters and decorators had begun transforming the sterile marble halls into a warm, lived‑in home. Fresh cedar planks arched overhead in a lattice pattern; strings of Edison bulbs hung like lanterns across the space. Lynn stepped inside the half‑finished pavilion, Milo chasing his shadow across the dusty floor and Kai toddling at her side, clutching his octopus toy.
Lucian emerged from an adjoining room with a stack of Lynn's childhood sketches—crayon renderings on notebook paper. He carried them carefully, as though they were fragile heirlooms. At his heels, Gao coordinated delivery of upholstered sofas and woven tapestries bearing motifs of waves and shells.
“Good morning," Lucian sai
