That night, I dreamed of her. Not as a ghost, but as she must have been alive. She was in the art room, laughing, sunlight streaming through the window. She turned and smiled at me, a real, full smile without a trace of sadness. Then she picked up a piece of charcoal and began to draw on a large, blank canvas. She was drawing the plaza, but it was different—brighter, filled with light. She was drawing her peace.
I woke up with a start, my face wet with tears. The dream felt less like a memory and more like a message. A goodbye