He stepped down from the booth without another word.
The room stopped breathing. I watched the faces nearest the dance floor — saw the moment a girl in a green dress recognized her own handwriting in a petal, saw her hand fly to her mouth. Saw a boy two tables over go very still.
She walked up first. Whispered something into Hazel’s ear I couldn’t hear. Then another girl. Then the boy, tears running down his face.
Hazel finally cried. Not from shame. From being seen.
I drove home alone that night and stood in Mason’s old room. I pressed my palm to his dresser.
“Someone kept your promise, baby,” I whispered. “She wasn’t alone.”
And tomorrow, I knew, she would eat breakfast at the table again.
