Mira nodded, bewildered.

“The sofa,” Aanya said, not a question.

She’d tried everything on the sofa. Steam cleaners left water rings. Rental wands just pushed the 1980s wine stain deeper into the velvet. One desperate afternoon, scrubbing at a shadow that looked unpleasantly like a human silhouette, Mira snapped. She threw the sponge into the bucket and yelled at the empty, dusty parlor.

“Now go clean your own heart. No appointment needed.”