Time, as it does, moved on. I grew up, moved out, built a life that looked stable enough from the outside. Then cancer arrived, quiet and ruthless.  She was gone in less than a year, leaving behind a fall filled with hospital corridors, whispered reassurances, and the strange exhaustion that comes from pretending to be strong for someone who is dying. We didn’t get one last Christmas together. By December, I was functioning on autopilot, angry at the world for continuing as if it hadn’t just taken the best person I knew.

Grief has a way of convincing you that if something hurts, you should abandon it. But her voice surfaced anyway, calm and insistent: It’s for someone who needs it. I cooked what I could manage—nothing fancy, nothing Instagram-worthy—and wrapped it the way she always had, foil tight, bag handles tied neatly. Eli was there, but not the way I remembered. He wasn’t curled on the floor or wrapped in his hoodie. He was standing upright in a dark suit that fit him perfectly, clean and pressed, holding a bundle of white lilies. When he turned and saw me, recognition flooded his face, and his composure cracked. “You came,” he said, as if he’d been holding his breath.