The tall man, whose name I learned was Marcus, stepped closer. “Henry would often talk about you, Claire. He used to say that kindness was a rare gift, and you were the best example of it.”

The paper flowers they held were crafted by Henry himself, Marcus explained. He had learned the skill from other men at a shelter, a testament to his years working with his hands. Each flower was more than just a symbol; it was a piece of Henry’s heart, his way of ensuring his presence on a day that meant so much to me.

As the ceremony began, I held one of the paper flowers close. The moment was bittersweet, but also beautiful. Surrounded by friends, family, and the twelve strangers, I felt Henry’s presence, his warmth, and his enduring legacy.