The party was at a professor's house, a sprawling Victorian with wraparound porches and a garden that seemed to go on forever. It was a celebration for graduating seniors, a final gathering before they scattered to the four winds. The lawn was strung with fairy lights, their soft glow creating pockets of intimacy in the darkness. Chinese lanterns hung from the trees, swaying gently in the warm spring breeze. Music drifted from somewhere inside—something jazz, something sophisticated, something that made you want to sway.

The warm spring air carried the scent of flowers and possibility, of endings and beginnings. People milled about with glasses of wine, laughing, hugging, taking photos that would be posted and liked and forgotten. It was the kind of evening that felt like the last page of a book, the final scene before the credits rolled.