But the most sacred thing happened at midnight. Marisol dimmed the lights and lit a single candle in a repurposed pickle jar. “Time for Moon Names,” she announced.

“Good,” Marisol said, stepping aside. “We’ve been saving you a seat.”

“The world outside,” Marisol said quietly, “will tell you that you’re too much or not enough. That you’re confused. That you’re a phase. But this culture— our culture—was built by people who survived that lie and decided to tell a better one. We dance at funerals. We take care of each other when the meds run out. We turn old lavender doors into sanctuaries.”

No, love. You are home.

“Riley.”