We moved June's chair from the stage before the doors opened. It had been placed beside the podium with a framed photograph and a bouquet. I understood the kindness, but the arrangement made her absence perform for strangers. Principal Webb listened when I said so. He removed the photograph from its easel and carried it to his office. The florist divided the bouquet into small jars for the counseling room, library desk, and art sink.

During the ceremony, I sat between Ellen and Mateo's grandmother. When June's name approached, my body counted alphabetically without permission. Principal Webb read it in the same clear tone as every other student's. He handed me the diploma at the bottom step rather than calling me onto the stage. I returned to my seat. The band played on. Nothing paused, yet Mateo touched two fingers to the paint mark on his shoe, and I knew the Lantern Room students had made their own quiet sign.

After the final cap landed, the twelve students did not surround me. They greeted families, took photographs, and argued about dinner reservations. Their ordinary happiness hurt and comforted me at once. Rhea eventually asked whether I still wanted to deliver the fabric. We loaded three bolts into my car beside June's diploma. The community center director expected scraps. She stared when we carried in enough blue canvas to replace every torn curtain in the children's room.

Inside the top roll, we found a narrow envelope taped to the cardboard tube. June had written the center's address on it, but there was no stamp. The director said June had planned to bring it herself during spring break. I recognized the green ink. My name was not on this one. The envelope belonged to a child named Kira, whose drawings covered the hallway. The director asked whether she should call Kira's foster mother or let me decide what happened to the letter.