The last open studio in the original Lantern Room happened three weeks later. We did not campaign to preserve cracked sinks and faulty wiring. Instead, students cataloged what the new room needed: low tables, lockable cabinets, task lighting, and a place where unfinished work could remain unfinished. I designed rolling display panels from reclaimed doors. Mateo built the frames with the sophomore June had once invited to lunch.

Kira arrived early and chose the seat nearest the window. She painted one panel amber, then covered it with shapes that looked different from every angle. I resisted explaining reflected light. She had not come for my lesson unless she asked. Across the room, parents repaired costumes while two children made paper lamps from grocery bags. The gathering felt nothing like a monument. It was noisy, incomplete, and useful.

When renovations began, we carried the old shades to the new wing. An electrician inspected and rewired them before hanging six above the worktables. The seventh shade had a crack and could not be installed. I kept it in my studio at home, where I had begun designing storefront displays again. My first client was the community center. I charged a fair fee, then donated only the hours I had chosen in advance.

On the first day of the new school year, I visited the relocated Lantern Room. No photograph of June hung at the entrance. Her sewing tin sat inside a supply cabinet, filled with blank cards anyone could use to request or offer help. I took the last seat while Kira taped a drawing to a rolling panel. I listened while chairs scraped and pencils moved around me. Then a boy I had never met pulled a green card from the tin and read the question June had left for me.