Elias stood before it now, a month after the funeral. The room smelled of lemon polish and stale air. The Nanawall was a stack of floor-to-ceiling glass panels, spanning nearly twenty feet. For weeks, they had been sealed shut, locked against the autumn chill. The glass was clouded with a fine layer of dust, turning the backyard into a gray, impressionist smear.
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By the time the last panel was folded away, the sunroom wasn't a room anymore. It was a covered porch. The dividing line between the living room and the garden had vanished. Elias stood before it now, a month after the funeral