The sun broke across the glass atrium like a quiet promise. Inside the newly unveiled Easton Hall of Innovation, a crowd had already gathered. Suits, scholars, students with lanyards. Photographers poised behind velvet ropes. Near the entrance, a sleek white wing gleamed, its walls curved like circuitry, polished floors reflecting a mosaic of motion. But all eyes turned toward the front stage, where a wide silver plaque was draped in silk. Miley stood before it, a pair of golden scissors in her hand, her fingers steady despite the storm of flashbulbs. She wore dove-grey, strong, elegant and by her side stood Julius, tall and still, in a black suit without a tie. His hand rested lightly against the shoulder of their daughter. Sasha was five now. All curls and fire. She wore tiny white sneakers under a tulle dress and was gripping her mother’s free hand like a sword. The emcee’s voice rang out over the mic: “It is with great honor we dedicate this permanent wing, a living archive o