The staff gathered near the bar.
Some had worked for Victor.
Some were new.
Melissa stood beside her mother.
Elena Soto had not entered the building since 2013.
Her hands shook when she walked through the doors.
I hugged her.
At first, her arms remained at her sides.
Then she held me.
Hard.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“So am I.”
“For hating you.”
“For not finding you.”
“You were hurt.”
“So were you.”
We stood there crying in a restaurant built from both our grief.
Then Grace arrived late, carrying champagne.
“You bill by the minute,” I told her.
“Then stop talking.”
People laughed.
Samuel came.
Former employees came.
Mateo’s old photograph was placed near the entrance.
Not some dramatic memorial.
Just a simple picture.
A working man smiling in a kitchen.
Underneath were three words.
HE SPOKE UP.
At six that evening, customers filled the dining room.
At seven, I walked past the open kitchen.
