The urn rode beside Maya in the passenger seat, secured with a seat belt, as if her mother were making one last trip with her. Everything about the morning had been planned before the death: the pier, the three-hour drive, the date, and the time. Maya was supposed to be there at 9:30 a.m. on her mother’s birthday.
She believed she was going to scatter ashes at a place her mother had always described as special. Instead, when she stepped onto the old wooden pier holding the urn close, she saw a man standing at the far end. He was not fishing. He was not taking photos. He seemed to be waiting for her.
Then he turned and said her name.
“You must be Maya,” he told her. Looking at the urn in her arms, he added that her mother had said she would come.