He didn’t sleep much that night. Grief still lived in the apartment, but it no longer had the whole place to itself. Somewhere across the city, a mother and son were eating because he’d chosen to stay, to listen, to say yes. The next morning, between pancakes and wrapping paper, he realized the feeling in his chest wasn’t just sorrow loosening. It was direction.
What began as a single, impulsive act became a thread he kept following. Clearing Rachel’s rent, funding her second chance, creating internships and scholarships in neighborhoods that looked like the one he’d escaped—none of it brought Jennifer back. It didn’t erase the empty side of the bed or the questions Lily still asked in the dark. But it changed the shape of his pain. In the warm light of that little bakery, a simple truth rooted itself: survival was never meant to be a solo act. We are here, in the end, to keep one another from going under.
