Hazel cried then, not from humiliation, but from the shock of being seen without being reduced. One girl approached first, whispering an apology into her ear, then another, then a boy who could barely speak through his tears. Mave watched from the parents’ section, understanding that prom had never really been about a dress, or a dance, or trying to bring back the girl Hazel used to be before Mason died. It was about giving her one night where pain did not get the final word. Later, Mave went home alone and stood in Mason’s old room, her palm pressed to his dresser, whispering that someone had kept his promise. The next morning, Hazel came downstairs for breakfast. She was not healed all at once; no honest grief works that way. But she sat at the table, wearing soft socks and tired eyes, and when Mave set pancakes in front of her, Hazel took a bite. Sometimes love does not drag a person back into the world. Sometimes it waits beside the door, holding out one hand and one impossible dress, until she is ready to step through.