The boy stood before it with his mother and father.
He was fifteen now.
Taller.
Stronger.
His sandy-blond hair was longer, and his favorite overalls had finally become too small.
He wore a newer pair.
But beneath them was the same kind of blue plaid shirt he'd worn on the day the anchor appeared.
His younger sister stood beside him.
She was eleven now and had developed her own interest in history.
She pointed toward the memorial.
“That's our great-great-grandmother?”
The boy nodded.
“That's what the records indicate.”
She looked toward the three-star emblem.
“Was she brave?”
He smiled.
“I think so.”
His sister studied the plaque.
Then asked, “Why did she keep going back with the lantern?”
The boy considered the question.
The historical accounts didn't describe her private thoughts.
They couldn't tell anyone exactly what she'd felt.
But the surviving letter explained what she'd done.
So he answered carefully.
“Because people still needed help.”
His sister nodded.
Then looked toward the cliffs.
“Would you have done that?”
The boy stared toward the lake.
For several seconds, he didn't answer.
Then he smiled faintly.
“I hope so.”
His mother placed one arm around him.
His father looked toward the memorial.
For a moment, the farmer seemed lost in thought.
Then he reached into his jacket.
He removed a small wooden box.
The boy recognized it.
It had belonged to his grandfather.
The box was old, with a worn brass hinge and a faded pattern carved into its lid.
The farmer held it carefully.
“There's something I want you to have.”
The boy looked surprised.
“What?”
His father opened the box.
Inside lay the three-star brass token.
The same token found in the grandfather's envelope.
The same symbol that appeared on the relief trust crates.
The same object that connected the family's old stories to the ship buried beneath the cliff.
The boy stared.
Then looked up.
“Dad?”
His father smiled.
“Your grandfather kept this for years.”
The child nodded.
The farmer continued.
“I think he'd want you to look after it.”
The boy's eyes filled.
He reached for the box.
Then stopped.
“Are you sure?”
His father nodded.
“Yes.”
For several seconds, the boy couldn't speak.
Then he took it carefully.
The token was small.
Its edges were worn.
Its surface was scratched.
It had no jewels.
No precious stones.
And no enormous monetary value.