Hannah’s shoulder had healed enough that she no longer needed the brace, though she still felt pain when she reached too quickly.
When her name was called, she walked to the front and accepted the five-year service award Tyler had promised he would try to witness.
She did not scan the room for him.
She did not wonder whether he might arrive late.
She stood beneath the warm lights, held the plaque with both hands, and let the applause belong entirely to her.
Afterward, she drove home through Fifth and Madison.
The repaired intersection shone under another light rain.
For a moment, she remembered the truck, the exploding glass, and the radio continuing to play inside the wreck.
Then the signal turned green.
Hannah drove forward.
On her mantel at home, the service award stood where her wedding photograph used to be.
Tyler had once mistaken her quietness for weakness.
He believed “Okay” meant she would accept whatever he gave her.
It had meant something else.
It was the last word Hannah gave him before choosing herself.
