In Memoriam.

Claude read the words on the little plaque and held it together long enough to nod his approval at Ashon. After his talk down in the kitchen with his mother, he'd gone up to his room, fished through his stuff for a bag he'd carried with as much care as his mother's letters, but hadn't opened in ages. It was all the little things he'd gotten from Lylon and Gwenore.

A scarf Gwenore had knitted for him during an especially oppressive winter, and crochet hook Lylon had whittled for her out of smooth, dark wood. It was a little crooked and often caught the yarn, yet she'd used it so much the imprint of her fingers permanently stained the wood. Lylon had gifted Claude his trusty pocket knife and a little book of pressed flowers he'd grown in his garden. They were all still pristine, certainly because he'd kept them packed down tight for so long.

He remembered tracing his fingers over each item and not being able to hold back his tears. He didn't deserve these things. He'd set them back in their place, tried not to think about them, as he had for the last nine years.

Then Ashon came to his room three weeks later, to ask if he'd be making a memorial for them. And he'd been honest. He couldn't. He didn't deserve to think of them fondly or honour their memories after he'd abandoned them. Heck, he'd come very close to breaking down in front of Ashon. But to the man's credit, he'd stood there quietly while Claude filled the air with excuses.

Then, with three little words, Ashon flipped his entire perspective on its head. Then who will? He'd asked. And Claude came to a crushing realisation. Lylon and Gwenore were old, had no kids, and likely no family or friends left. Claude might be the only person alive who knew them personally, who could carry on their story, their legacies. If he didn't honour them, their legacy would be lost to time. They couldn't even get a proper burial. Shame had washed over him. How could he have been so short-sighted and selfish? Even if he didn't think he deserved to honour them, they deserved to be honoured. Period.

The mason had done an excellent job with the plaque. A little ball of yarn pierced with two needles sat above Gwenore's name and a gardening shovel with a gardenia growing from its handle sat above Lylon's. It was perfect.

"We should head out if we want to make the candle lighting ceremony," Ashon said.

Claude nodded and followed him downstairs where his mother and the twins were waiting. White was the colour of mourning and remembrance in the Summersong Mountains. So Claude had ventured into the market for white fabric and a sewing machine to borrow and made himself something suited for the occasion. He stuck his hands in his pocket and found the crochet hook and pocket knife there. His mother told him it was customary to leave a belonging of a passed loved one at their site. While he was sad to let them go, this little sacrifice for Lylon and Gwenore.

"Are we ready?" his mother asked. She said we, but Claude knew she was only talking to him.

"Ready as I'll ever be." Which is to say, not at all.

The sun was behind the west mountain, and a brisk wind blew across the spring. Along the water, he could already see groups of people gathered, their white clothes standing out starkly against the reddish brown bank. Remembrance day was held with much esteem and importance in the city. The market had closed down, there was no school and most everyone spent their day at the base of the mountains picking wildflowers or weaving the river reeds into tiny boats to set up the water.

A boat awaited them down at the river shore and it whisked them away to the memorial gardens. It lay in the northeast, between the market and the fortress—a long stretch of land filled with plaques like the one Ashon carried. Some were surrounded by flowers, some affixed to trees or stone spires. Winding steps and paths veered off every which way. People moved around silently, carrying bundles of fragrant herbs and flower petals. Some burned incense in little stone pots. There was a silent reverence in the air, not mournful but still unsettling.

"I'll help Claude get this situated," his mother said, reaching out for the plaque. "Why don't you all go pay grandma a visit?"

"Come Papa." Amani and Inati grabbed their father's hands and dragged him deeper into the garden. Meanwhile, his mother started up a path in the opposite direction.

Dread pooled in Claude's stomach, and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. He took deep, even breaths to calm his nerves and squeezed the little box in his hands. This would be good for him. Grieving, confronting his failures. He needed this.

His mother veered off the path, passing between two trees with trunks wider than he could stretch his arms.

"Where are we headed?" he asked.

"It's not much further. Don't worry, I'm following a particular voice." She smiled over her shoulder at him. Up ahead a two people were standing around a shallow hole in the ground, chatting in hushed voices. One looked up and stepped away as they approached.

"Esther, it's good to see you." The woman relieved his mother of the plaque before leaning in for a hug. "It's been too long."

"It's been a week," his mother said, and he could imagine her rolling her eyes. "Claude, this is Sireen. She was the very first friend I made when I came to the mountains."

Sireen's eyes brightened as she turned her attention to Claude. She reminded him of Quintus in some ways—same golden skin and dark eyes, but with curly dark hair that fell down her back. He wondered how she wasn't sweating to death in the heavy white robes she wore.

"It's wonderful to finally meet. You're even more handsome than I imagined." Her smile could light up a moonless midnight.

Claude almost forgot the reason he was here. "Likewise."

"There will be time for pleasantries later." She turned back to the boy standing near the hole. "Makav, is the site ready?"

The boy perked up and nodded enthusiastically. Beside him was a large clay jar, its top sealed with a cloth stretched taught by a rope. When Claude looked into the hole, he found a square block in its centre, about the same size as the plaque. The reality of it bore down on his shoulders.

"Before we begin," Sireen said, "there are a few things you should know about the site. The garden is always open, so you can come visit whenever you'd like. You're free to decorate it, plants and pots are encouraged. However, please limit yourself to the area within the wooden stakes." She pointed to four wooden stakes a foot away from each corner of the hole. "Any questions for me?"

Claude shook his head. He just wanted to get this over with.

"Alright then." She set the plaque beside the hole and lifted the lid from the stone box. The square joint along the edges had made it appear so seamless he hadn't realised it was a box at all. "You can place their belongings here. If you ever wish to unearth them, just say the word."

Claude nodded, knelt down and laid Gwenore's crochet hook and Lylon's knife in the box. It looked so pitifully empty with just those two things. Perhaps he could fill it the rest of the way with his regrets.

Sireen carefully laid the lid back on and nodded to her assistant. Makav uncapped the jar and tipped it on its side. A thick slurry of red-brown clay poured into the hole, filling it until the box was submerged. Then he took the plaque from Sireen and laid it on top. It fit almost perfectly, leaving only a slim gap for the clay to climb up its sides and fix it in place.

"I think that should do it," Sireen said, and smiled at Esther. "We'll give you two some time." They stepped away from the site and ventured deeper into the gardens, leaving Claude and his mother in the quiet stillness.

He couldn't stand the sound of his heart in his ears. He sat back on his haunches and hung his head, fisting his hands so they wouldn't shake. "Did you know them well?" he asked his mother.

She shook her head. "Not really, no. Your father and I met Gwenore in the market. I'd just found out I was pregnant. She was a lovely woman, said she wished she could've had children of her own. I'd like to think we did each other a favour. I gave her the chance to be a mother, and in return, she took care of you."

And what did I do in return? he asked himself silently. "Do you think they were angry with me?"

"No, Claude, of course not. I'm sure they were overjoyed to know you were safe. They wouldn't have let you go if they weren't ready for you to not come back." She put her hand over his. "Think of it this way. For a long time, I thought you were angry with me, but you came here and proved me wrong."

He had to admit, that took the sting away just a little. "I just hate to think that they suffered when..." he couldn't even finish the thought. Tears welled in his eyes as he thought about them being torn apart by those monsters.

"I wish I could say they didn't suffer, and I know vague platitudes don't do much in times like these, but they're not suffering now. You're allowed to grieve them, Claude. Let yourself grieve." His mother squeezed his hand. "Come down the hill when you're ready. We'll be waiting by the shore."

And a moment later, he was blessedly alone. His mother, even without sight, always knew just what everyone needed. He'd been holding in his tears, because he didn't want to break down into a sobbing mess in front of her. But as soon as she disappeared, his grief burst from him in choking sobs.

"I'm sorry," he said through his tears. "I'm so sorry." His chest burned with shame, but he did his best to remember his mother's words, to hold on to the good memories. Gwenore waking him up to go to the market in Tilay. Picking ripe tomatoes from the garden with Lylon. Those long winter days cooped up in the house while snow blanketed the village. Sitting near the fire, the creak of Gwenore's rocking chair and the sound of Lylon whittling.

Claude smothered his regrets with those little warm memories.