So Mira did something unexpected. She didn’t fill the penthouse with expensive art. Instead, she started hosting dinners for the other tenants from the lower floors—the doorman, the mail carrier, the elderly couple from the 12th floor, the young single mother from the 3rd. She installed a long wooden table, and every Sunday, the penthouse filled with noise, spices, laughter, and the sticky fingerprints of children.

Her client, an old woman named Elara, lived there alone. The penthouse was minimalist—empty, clean, and cold. Elara had everything: a private garden in the sky, a marble fireplace, and a view that stretched for fifty miles. Yet she spent most of her time in a single armchair, staring at the clouds.

“It’s not about money,” Elara said. “It’s about perspective.”