Gwen stayed close and pressed one shoulder into Isobel’s, like she thought doing so would help to keep her strong, grounded. The contact did better, reassuring her more than any timepiece could have.

As the bugler’s mournful serenade wore on, the tension in her shoulders eased, and her anxiety over the question of Varen’s presence faded. For it suddenly occurred to her that by standing at this grave site, she’d already accomplished what she’d set out to do. Her presence communicated what Varen had refused to let her convey with words. That she cared more than he knew. That despite what he’d been led to believe, that wasn’t something she could turn off, or shove aside. Or fake.

Isobel lifted her chin with new resolve and stared forward, through the spaces between shoulders, at the elevated casket. A flash of red, white, and blue fluttered as two soldiers lifted the American flag from the coffin’s silver lid. The officers then began to fold the banner in a series of clipped and practiced movements, and Isobel concentrated hard on the sharp, choreographed motions, working to clear her head.

Though she had attended only two funerals in her life, she had learned through both experiences that observances like this were intended for the living, not the dead. Burying someone meant sealing that person away for good, surrendering everything that wasn’t a memory. Anything that couldn’t be kept in an album or a box.

When the bugler’s song ended, the crowd shifted as if everyone had been holding their breath. Blinking, Isobel turned her attention to the wavy-haired man and little girl at the head of the group, the only two people to take seats.

When one of the soldiers stepped forward to kneel before the man, offering him the folded flag, Isobel realized the man had to be Bruce’s surviving nephew, mentioned in the obituary. And the girl must be the man’s daughter.

After presenting the flag, the soldier saluted and backed away. Then another man in a black suit and green tie, a bible tucked under one arm, stepped forth to address the crowd. He thanked everyone for coming and announced the conclusion of the service.

Low conversation broke out among the group. People angled toward one another and then away, breaking off in ones and pairs.

Isobel remained in place, stunned at the ceremony’s abrupt conclusion.

Whole minutes ticked by until only Isobel and Gwen were left standing under the awning. But Gwen, as if she was able to sense Isobel’s inner turmoil, stayed put, continuing to lend the pressure of her shoulder.

Car doors slammed in the distance. Somewhere close by, an engine turned.

Resisting the urge to crane her neck and check their surroundings one last time, Isobel turned toward Gwen instead. She started to speak, to tell her that she was ready to go even though she wasn’t. She stopped, however, when she noticed Gwen staring off at a pair of previously obscured metal tripods set up just outside the tent, each supporting a large photo.

The first tripod displayed a yellow-tinted portrait of a young, clean-shaven, and virtually unrecognizable Bruce in a Green Beret uniform, a strip of multicolored service ribbons pinned to his chest. The second photo showed an older and more familiar version of the bookshop owner, his face bearing an uncharacteristic grin. Seated next to him, a black-haired woman in a floral-print blouse beamed her own bright smile.

While Isobel assumed the woman must have been Bruce’s wife, she wasn’t immediately certain about the third and final person in the portrait—a boy who couldn’t have been much older than her at the time the picture had been taken.

Lanky and tall, clad in a white dress shirt and tie, the boy stood behind Bruce and the woman, a hand resting on one of her shoulders. His fair hair, not quite chin length, hung straight and limp around his face.

Isobel stepped toward the tripods, her curiosity piqued. She sensed Gwen following on her heels, but when Isobel stopped to study the photo, Gwen wandered ahead to the grave site and the casket that had yet to be lowered.

Squinting at the photo, Isobel noticed that unlike Bruce and his wife, the boy wasn’t smiling. But she thought he didn’t need to. He had kind and soft features, his bright steel-colored eyes lit from within by a spark of secret mirth, like he was wrestling with the urge to make a face or hold up a pair of bunny ears.

“Oh my gosh,” Isobel heard Gwen say, and she saw her friend crouch in front of the flat slab embedded in the earth next to the empty space reserved for Bruce’s. Gwen waved her over.

“Look at the dates,” Gwen said. “His kid died only a year older than us. Couldn’t have been too long after that picture was taken.”

Isobel stooped next to Gwen and read the name engraved on the marker.