A father in the front row asked whether the town would issue a correction.
The city manager said a formal statement would accompany the report.
The father asked whether it would name the people injured but omitted from the original count.
Priya said the revised list would include anyone who consented to be identified.
Some families had chosen privacy.
The report would respect that choice.

Esther stood and asked whether the corrected attendance estimate would include donated admissions.
Priya said it would describe the likely undercount and the evidence supporting it.
She could not provide a precise total.
Esther nodded.
She said an honest uncertainty was better than a false number printed in bold type.

Lucia read a short statement about the gate.
She said the sound of the chain had followed her into adulthood.
She did not want the town to treat the new findings as a reason to forget the children who were hurt.
She wanted the next generation to understand how ordinary decisions about convenience and access could become dangerous when nobody questioned them.
Her voice shook, but she finished without looking down.

When my turn came, I had prepared a page of notes.
I left it folded in my pocket.
I told the room that Daniel had been my brother before he became a name in a disputed report.
He had played guitar badly, teased me about my handwriting, and borrowed money he always repaid late.
I said the new findings mattered because they described what he had actually done during the accident.
They did not require anyone to pretend he had been fearless or perfect.
They required the town to stop repeating a claim it could not support.

Afterward, the city manager asked whether I would help choose a place to display the corrected history.
I said the families should decide together.
He asked whether I wanted the arena preserved.
I said the building was unsafe and the question belonged to the people responsible for it.
What mattered to me was that its story no longer depended on a damaged file in my kitchen.

I returned home as the afternoon light fell across the repaired front door.
The paint had been removed, but the wood still showed a faint discoloration near the handle.
I touched it once and went inside.
My mother had left a message asking whether I wanted dinner.
I called her back and said I would bring bread.
Then I put the blue file on the table and left it there without checking the contents again.