She didn’t know whose ashes they were. She didn’t know if she should feel sad or what, but she’d tell herself to sing. And sometimes play the piano keys. Behind her, a bay window gave onto the district. The sun rose over the houses and the lush, pretty gardened streets and the people there and their unthinkable lives while she sat, singing. She sang to the urn on the bookshelf in the morning as the light gushed through the window and glinted in three-starred spots on the dull metal of the urn. The urn. The ashes she didn’t know.
