It had been one of Carlos’ final and most selfish wishes that no formal funeral be held for him. Thus, the day she received the long-expected news of his death, Austen sat at home alone with nothing to do and nothing to plan.

On the desk before her were photographs. The old poet had printed them out on glossy paper, in the antique style. It was something she remembered Juanita had done frequently. Carlos himself had also printed photos, in a period of his life where he had carried a film camera, many years ago. He had taken the photos whilst travelling, looking for stories; Juanita had used some of those photographs as materials when she painted.

She sifted through them. She had many of Carlos from recent times, when she and him had been at their closest. Before that, though, there was a gap. A period he had been hidden. Likely, at home, alone, at his desk, thinking about the death of Abraham.

She kept turning photos, careful not to move too fast. It felt like if she moved too fast, something would come unsettled inside her, or something would break.

Here was one of Carlos and Juanita atop some mountain peak. Here was one just of Chae-won alone, somehow in the mix she had printed out. Here was one of the six of them - Freddie, Austen, Carlos, Juanita, Chae-Won, and Abraham, at the funeral of another man, who had died before Abe, and who had been called Shin.

Austen stopped turning photographs. She stood and walked through her small flat to the kitchen, and filled a glass with water. The cup was cold enough in her hand that when she set it down on the desk her fingers felt a little stiff, a little clumsy. She sat on her hands for a moment to warm them up before continuing.

Photos further back contained more and more faces. Georgie, Ole, Ingrid, the two Daniels, Brett, Hoi-Ping, Mohammed, Zara, Uwe, Ashina, Matthew, Vlaada, Jane, and many, many more, until she started seeing individuals she didn’t recognise, though she had always been good with names, always a people person. Many were perhaps only friends of friends, guests at the ceremonies (seh-REH-mon-ees) held for people she had only slightly known.

Back further still she saw, in the corners of the group photos, strangers with grey hair. Loose acquaintances, perhaps, who had died - whilst dying was still common. They had been part of a crowd, part of her generation but not part of her family. Austen found couldn’t even say a single thing about many of them. It was terrifying

The phone rang, and Austen jumped as if shocked. Wiping her eyes, she clutched at it, and saw the caller - Sebastien Hoon. Her fingers numbly accepted.

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“Hello, Sebastian?”

Her voice was slightly breathless., Austen noticed. She tried to control it, to focus on keeping it steady..

“Hello, Austen,” Came the reply. The two of them had been on first name terms ever since she spent so much time with Chae-Won in the professor’s final, waning years.

“I thought I would call to see how you are doing.”

“Oh, thank you! That’s so wonderfully thoughtful, Sebastian. I’m fine, fine, how…” are you, Austen tried to finish, but the words caught somehow, and all that came out was a small gasping sound at the end of the sentence. Slow down, she thought, hold steady.

There was a beat of silence.

“I’m well, Austen, thank you. I… saw the news about Mr De Leon. I was very sorry to hear he passed.”

So measured, the way he talks, Austen thought. So precise, just like Chae-Won. She found she couldn’t think of a reply - and besides she didn’t trust her throat to answer.

“And I wondered,” the young academic continued, “Whether you would like to come and spend some time with myself and my family. You may have company already, or have already made plans, but you would be very welcome here.”

Austen found she did not know what to say. Her mouth opened, but silence came out of her, joining the silence of the room, of her empty flat with the photographs on the table.

“Hello? Austen? Are you there?”

Sebastian’s voice broke the yawning quiet and brought her back.

“...Yes,” she choked out.

“...Is that yes you are there, or yes to the invitation?”

“...Both, I suppose, Sebastian! I… wouldn’t be a bother?”

“No, we really would love to have you. Come and meet my grandchildren. Speaking of bother, though… I should perhaps have led with this. We live in Korea.”

“Oh! Um…”

“It’s a very easy and cheap trip these days. I’ll send you some details - there’s actually a flight this afternoon, if you would like.”

“...Yes,” Austen breathed. “I’ve… never been to Korea.”

The conversation finished smoothly. More words of consolation were given, and accepted. Details of rapid travel options were shared. And, after some goodbyes, the ancient woman found herself once again on her own in the silence of her flat.

She looked around. The photographs were still spread across the desk in front of her. Austen Reached out, flipped a few more. Then, after some time, she dried her eyes once more, then gathered the photos all up into a folder, which she packed with some other things - some clothes, a notebook, her pens - before leaving the flat to catch her flight; the only mortal woman in the world, bound for somewhere she had never been before.