She was standing motionless in front of a storage closet.
Inside hung a garment bag.
Her father’s police uniform.
She didn’t notice me. Her hands hovered near the zipper, not quite touching it.
Then she whispered, so softly I almost missed it:
“What if he could still take me?”
I stepped forward. “Wren.”
She startled and turned around quickly.
“I wasn’t—”
“It’s okay.”
She glanced back at the uniform.
“I had this crazy idea… I mean, I don’t even want to go to prom, so it’s fine if you say no. But if I did go… I’d want him with me. And I thought maybe… I could use his uniform.”
For years, Wren had convinced herself she didn’t want what other girls had—birthday parties, school trips, father-daughter events. She turned disappointment into independence so early it worried me.
I stepped closer. “Open it. Let’s see what you’re working with.”
She blinked. “What?”
“The bag.”
She took a breath, unzipped it, and revealed the neatly pressed uniform.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders as we both stared at it.
She brushed the sleeve gently.
“Do you think it could work?”
