I did not open Kira's letter. We called her foster mother, Denise, who brought her to the center that evening. Kira was eleven and carried a sketchbook against her chest. She read June's note by the window, then asked for tape. The letter invited her to visit the high school art room and promised that nobody would grade what she made there. June had drawn a tiny lamp at the bottom, the same shape as the Lantern Room shades.

Kira said she still wanted to visit, but she did not want a room full of people feeling sorry for her. I understood. Rhea proposed an open studio once a month, staffed by volunteers, with no memorial speech and no requirement to discuss June. The director offered bus passes. I offered to help with displays and supplies. We wrote the idea on butcher paper, including costs, adult supervision, and who could unlock the building.

Ellen watched me draw a floor plan. On the drive home, she asked whether I was ready to lead a program. I said I was ready to make one drawing and attend one meeting. Grief had made everyone speak in permanent promises because temporary ones sounded weak. The students had shown me a better scale. A repaired curtain mattered even if it did not become a foundation. One afternoon of open tables could be enough for that afternoon.

At home, I finally unfolded June's diploma. A second sheet slipped from the cover: a facilities notice saying the Lantern Room would be converted to storage during summer renovations. The art program had moved to a new wing, and nobody had mentioned it amid graduation planning. I called Mateo. He was silent, then said perhaps the room itself was not the promise. I looked at June's green card on my kitchen table and wondered whether I believed him.