He pulled out an old, yellowed photograph from . It was the day his grandfather had passed away, leaving him nothing but a cryptic set of coordinates and a belief that the universe spoke in digits. His grandfather had always said that "Kamboja" didn’t just grow in the ground; it grew in the stars, blooming once a year in a sequence only the patient could see.

"Paling Jitu," he murmured—the most accurate. "And trusted."

As the clock struck midnight, marking the start of the day, Sary walked to the window. The moon was a pale sliver over the Mekong River. He reached into his pocket and gripped a small jade charm.

"Sunday," Sary whispered to himself, the humidity of the Cambodian evening clinging to his skin. "The numbers are aligned for Sunday."