Noah was asleep with a notebook open beside his pillow, full of unfinished lyrics and tiny drawings of musical notes.

The house was quiet.

Somewhere down the hall, Owen was shutting off the last light.

I thought of Autumn traveling down the school corridor on a route she could navigate without fear of a broken caster or an unfair late mark.

I thought of the district staff who had finally listened, the volunteers who had helped when asked, and the young people who had learned that speaking up could matter.

Noah had wanted to buy a wheelchair because he saw his friend struggling.