Therapy helped some, but grief staggered. Then, one night in June, Caleb said Louis deserved a real headstone and maybe a memorial night. He insisted on earning it himself—mowing lawns, washing cars, walking dogs. He fed every dollar into a battered shoebox, proud of each step closer. Then came the fire. We escaped, but the shoebox was gone. Caleb collapsed, whispering, “I promised him.”