Safiya introduced Thomas to Leona through the laptop. For a moment neither spoke. They had last met when he was delivering crates of clay and she was trying to assemble a wall without enough helpers.

“You still drive that blue truck?” Leona asked.

“No. It finally surrendered.”

“It gave us a good summer.”

Thomas stepped closer to the screen. “You gave my boy a piece of clay. He thought he was an artist for a week.”

“He was an artist for that week,” Leona replied. “That’s the point.”

By nine, a reporter from the local paper had arrived. She expected a ribbon-cutting preview. Instead she found dozens of people explaining small handmade objects. Teresa showed her bread-bowl sketch. Roland demonstrated how he had curved a rail to support a long section of the mural. Mara placed the blue-and-yellow moth beside the photograph of young Owen’s handprint.

The reporter asked why these details had never appeared in the committee’s materials. No one offered a single dramatic answer. Several described their attempts to contact the organizers. Others admitted they had said nothing for decades because they thought the original work was gone. Safiya explained the proposed alteration to the lower wall and the need to preserve it before the protective finish was applied.

Inside, the press preview began badly. A curtain hung across the bottom of the mural. Etta stood in front of it and welcomed the guests with a practiced smile. She described the project’s long journey, thanking donors and volunteers, but her voice faltered when she reached the phrase “my original vision.”

Iris stood near the entrance, watching the gathering outside grow. Niko had refused to continue work until a safety inspection. The painter injured the previous night was resting at home and would recover, but the incident had shaken everyone. The city’s cultural coordinator, Helena Ortiz, arrived carrying a folder of ordinary event documents and asked why the main exhibit was covered.

“There are conservation concerns,” Etta said.

“Then why is there a gathering of original contributors outside?” Helena asked.

Etta looked toward the door. Through the glass she could see the ceramic moths arranged on a table. The image seemed to drain strength from her shoulders.

“I will speak to them,” she said.

She went outside without her apron or coat. The crowd parted uncertainly. Some people wanted to confront her immediately; others looked embarrassed by the prospect. Leona’s face appeared on Safiya’s laptop, propped against a stack of sketchbooks.

“Hello, Etta,” Leona said.

Etta stood still. Twenty-seven years seemed to hang between them, heavy and difficult to name.

“I didn’t think you would come,” Etta answered.

“I’m not there,” Leona said. “But my work is. So is yours. So is theirs.”