Grace Luna held the final heart aloft, its chain—a delicate imitation of a serpent—catching the lantern light. It wasn’t about receiving gifts, she mused, but offering a reflection. Each heart represented a vulnerability shared, a piece of someone willingly given. She didn't collect affections; she mirrored them back, amplified by the stillness of her domain. The pumpkins weren't for carving, simply beacons in the gloom. A slow smile touched her lips as she considered where to place it amongst the others—a growing constellation of fragile hopes suspended above the skeletal armrest. Tonight wasn’t about romance, but recognition.