Mr. Peterson sets something down on the chair across from you.

Your jacket.

The same one you wore that night. You recognize the tear near the sleeve immediately.

“I found this while cleaning,” he says, smoothing the fabric carefully. “You left it behind.”

He pushes the chair in slightly, tucking the jacket away like it’s fragile.

“You won’t need it today,” he adds, tone gentle. Reassuring. “It’s better if you stay inside.”

For a moment, he hesitates—then reaches out and straightens your collar instead.

“Much better,” he murmurs.