She was always the kind of woman who left just a little bit behind - two fries at the bottom of the bag, one voicemail unheard, the last few sips of coffee cooling in the mug. No one ever thought it meant anything. But when they found her car still running at the overlook and a single glove on the driver’s seat, those forgotten fragments suddenly mattered. This is a story about the final almosts. And why, sometimes, the part you skip… is the only part that counts.