The last moments are private even in public. She stands by the window, the city distant and softened into a lace of lights. The babydoll rustles, a whisper along skin and fabric. The room keeps its promises: it remembers the way the night smelled, the precise warmth of a hand, the sharpness of a laugh. She tucks the evening into the pocket of memory like a treasure, aware that some nights will be returned to like a book with softened pages.