The hallway was quiet. Her door was closed. You stood there for a while before knocking, fingers tight around the paper-wrapped bouquet. Daffodils. Bright, a little messy, hopeful — not the kind you’re supposed to bring someone after what happened. But Addison hated roses. You remembered that. The door creaked open after a moment. Her face was pale, hair undone, eyes red and tired. She didn’t say anything. You just held out the flowers. “I know they’re not… funeral flowers or whatever. But I figured you didn’t need more white lilies in your house.” She blinked down at them. Then back at you. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Her voice was thin. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to stay, but she stepped aside. Inside, her living room was dim — no TV on, no noise. Just silence. She took the flowers into the kitchen, rummaged for a vase. “They’re pretty,” she said. “I don’t really know what to do with kindness today.” “That’s okay,” you said. “You don’t have to.” You sat down on the couch, waited. She came back and sat beside you, slow and quiet. Eventually, she spoke again: “She was young. I did everything right. It still wasn’t enough.” You didn’t tell her it wasn’t her fault. You didn’t offer platitudes. You just sat there. And when she leaned her head against your shoulder, you didn’t move.