I pick up the container and feel the weight of it settle into my palm, and suddenly I’m back on Christmas morning with him promising me a future neither of us understood yet. The meaning attached to them doesn’t feel hypothetical anymore.
Nearby, Dane wraps the small wooden carvings he’d been working on while I was pregnant—a turtle, a fish, a dolphin. Simple shapes carved by hand.
They were meant for Connor. And they’re the only pieces of him we can physically carry with us.
For a moment we both just stand there at camp, taking everything in one last time. The shelter walls Dane rebuilt overand over. The fire pit. The careful order of things. All the small systems and routines that somehow stopped feeling temporary and became a life.
It’s a strange thing to want to leave a place for so long and then, when the moment finally comes, feel part of yourself resisting it.
Eventually, we’re ready.
“We have to say goodbye to them.”
Dane nods once and turns toward the men waiting at the edge of camp. “We just need another minute before we go,” he says. “Our family’s buried up there.”
The older man nods. “Yeah, take your time.”
We walk toward the graves together.
I look at the line of markers and feel the full weight of time all at once. Fourteen years reduced to names carved into wood, each one marking a version of our family that ended here.
Dane stops beside me.
“I don’t know how to leave him.” My voice breaks halfway through the sentence despite trying to keep it steady.
Dane is quiet for a second.
“We’re not leaving him, Char. We’ll come back when we can.”
I look at him. “Promise me.”
“We’ll find a way,” he says. “I promise.”
I crouch slowly beside Connor’s grave and press my hand flat against the earth in front of his marker.
“We’re leaving,” I whisper to him. “But we’ll come back.”
My throat tightens painfully.
“You’re not alone. You’re with them.” My voice slips apart completely after that. “I love you. That doesn’t change. It doesn’t matter where I am.”
I stay there another few seconds with my hand against the ground before finally forcing myself to stand again. My legs shake underneath me.
Dane’s hand settles against the middle of my back, and I lean into it before straightening again. I don’t look back as we return to the beach.
The boat is called theMarlin Star.As soon as I step on board, the smell hits—diesel and fish.
There are five people.
Too many.
They don’t stare, not openly, but their eyes keep coming back to us. Quick looks that linger just a little too long. One of the younger ones starts to say something, then stops when the older man shifts beside him. He looks down instead, hands busy with nothing.
Dane stays close. Close enough that I always know where he is. When someone passes too near, his hand brushes my arm.
It’s automatic.
The older man presses a mug into my hands. Someone else sets food down beside me—bread, something from a tin.
