Zoe POV

Noah is still calling her name.

I can see him at the front of the crowd, his voice cutting through the festival noise again and again, and the woman on the float doesn’t turn, doesn’t pause, her arm still sweeping flowers out into the air with that practiced grace, and the petals fall and the crowd surges and none of it stops, none of it acknowledges him, none of it acknowledges the name he’s saying.

She doesn’t react. My sister doesn’t react.

Except ...