Ada was a teacher in every sense. In her classroom, she taught lessons with patience and precision. Beyond it, she taught us how to pay attention: to the person speaking, to the change of seasons, to the small signs that something living needed care. In her garden, she would press seeds into the soil with complete faith in the work, but never with certainty about the outcome. She taught us to plant things we might never see grow—to offer time, knowledge, kindness, and trust without asking to witness the harvest. Many of us are living among the results of what she planted. And then there were her stories. At every table, Ada was the one we waited for. She remembered the exact detail that made a moment come alive: the weather, the shoes someone wore, the sentence that changed everything. Her stories did not make her the center of the room. They made the room larger, and gave everyone in it a place. What Ada meant to us can be found in what we will do now: teach with patience, tend what is fragile, listen closely, and tell the stories worth keeping. We will plant, even when the future belongs to someone else. Thank you for what you placed in our hands, Ada. Goodbye, Ada.