Her voice trembled.
“It means carrying what was good about them into places they never got to reach.”
She stepped away.
That was all.
After the service, the injured biker approached using a cane.
“You didn't mention Claire talking through you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Adeline smiled.
“That's not his story.”
He looked at her.
“You really don't remember?”
“Some.”
“Do you still believe it happened?”
Adeline looked toward the sunlight outside the funeral home.
“What do you believe?”
The biker laughed.
“Coward.”
“Old man.”
“Princess.”
She hugged him.
He whispered:
“I believe her.”
Adeline closed her eyes.
“So do I.”
The man lived another six years.
When he died, his second wife asked Adeline to help sort his belongings.
Inside an old wooden box lay Claire's locket.
The silver had tarnished.
Adeline held it carefully.
His widow said:
“He wanted you to have that.”
Adeline shook her head immediately.
“No.”
“He was very specific.”
“It belonged to Claire.”
“And then him.”
“Exactly.”
The widow smiled.
“And now you.”
Adeline opened it.
The childhood photograph remained.
So did the engraving.
LIVE ENOUGH FOR BOTH OF US.
She sat down.
For several minutes she could not speak.
The widow sat beside her.
“Do you remember finding it?”
“No.”
“You told them where to look.”
“I know the story.”
“Not the same?”
Adeline shook her head.
“Memory is strange.”
She closed the locket.
“Maybe it's better I don't remember everything.”
“Why?”
“Because if I did, I might spend my whole life trying to explain it.”
The widow smiled.
“And now?”
“Now I can just be grateful.”
She kept the locket.
Years later, she gave it to the biker leader's granddaughter.
Not because she wanted to remove Claire from her own life.
Because objects, like grief, did not need to remain in one place forever.
The granddaughter cried.
“My grandfather would've wanted you to keep it.”
Adeline smiled.
“He would’ve argued.”
“Yes.”
“So would Claire.”
The granddaughter laughed.
They placed the locket around her neck.
Family returned to family.
The old notebooks remained with Kendra.
When Kendra was seventy-two, she finally asked:
“What do you want me to do with these after I'm gone?”
Adeline stared at the box.
“Burn them.”
Kendra looked horrified.
“What?”
“I’m serious.”
“I spent years writing those.”
“I know.”
“For you.”
“I know.”
“Every date.”
“Yes.”
“Every weird thing.”
“Yes.”
“You can't burn documentation.”
Adeline laughed.
“You sound like Dad would've if I had one.”
Kendra frowned.
“Not funny.”
Adeline opened the box.
Read several pages.
Then softened.
“Okay.”
“Thank you.”
“What do you want?”
Kendra thought.
“Keep them.”
“Why?”
“So one day when you think I exaggerated everything, you can see that I was at least consistently confused.”
They laughed.
Adeline promised.