The first bite was cold, sweet, and rich. It tasted like memory. It tasted like now. And for ten minutes, under the warm glow of the Saltgrass lights, the dessert menu did what grief could not. It brought them back to the table, together.

Lena spoke first. "The Caramel Pie. But with extra whipped cream."

Dottie materialized again. "Decide on anything?"

Marcus nodded, grateful for the small mercy. He opened the menu, but his eyes skipped past the ribeyes and the prime rib, landing squarely on the back page:

Marcus felt the knot in his chest loosen a fraction. "Yeah, baby. We can do that."

The leather booth creaked as Marcus slid into it, the long day of driving from Houston finally settling into his bones. Across from him, his daughter, Lena, traced a finger over the condensation on her water glass. She was twelve now, too old for the kids' menu, too young for the silent weight that had filled the car since the funeral.