During the last week of summer, I volunteered to help Mrs. Ramos, the town librarian, organize a new local history section. The old, dusty copies were being digitized, and new materials about the Reyes case and the protected sanctuary were being added.
I was high on a ladder, shelving new books, when a new student walked in. A freshman, looking small and lost. She went to the new history section and pulled out the book about the Luna Reyes Memorial Sanctuary. She traced the embossed title on the cover with her finger, a look of fascination on her face.
She didn't see me watching. She was just a kid, interested in a local story. But in that moment, I saw the cycle continue. The truth was out. It was being read, learned, remembered. It was no longer a hidden wound on the town; it was part of its history, a lesson and a memorial.
I climbed down from the ladder and looked out the library window. The afternoon sun was warm. The world was ordinary. But for the first time since it all began, the ordinary felt like enough. It felt like a foundation to build on. The light coming through the window was just light—but it was steady, and it was real. And it was all mine.