Clay Gilbert stood through the whole ceremony. It wasn’t terribly long, and it wasn’t intentionally moving, but he was wiping a tear by the time it was over and his father’s ashes were scattered to the sea. He turned from the funeral dock, turned and faced the headland.
A hand grasped his. “Hey Clay,” said his older sister, Marie, “going to be okay?”
“I think so,” said Clay.
Another hand took his other hand. He looked down: Yvette, Marie’s kid, gave him a quick smile and then looked up meaningfully at the top of the broken mountain. “Is that an old castle there?” she asked. “Was there a castle up there when you were little?”
“No,” said Clay, “it’s just a lookout tower. It’s pretty ruined.” He looked up to the rounded stony peak overlooking the harbor and remembered looking down from there as a child, maybe Yvette’s age…
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