Thirty-Nine
Freya’s hair whipped her face, and her burnt-orange skirt flapped about her knees as she stood on the rocky outcrop. The start of Fall might have been evident in the sea’s icy winds, but more than a week after her mother’s death, that iciness matched today’s bleak mood, and she appreciated the element’s camaraderie.
A light-yellow cardboard box weighed heavy in her right hand, her mother’s ashes nestled inside. There’d been no point in a funeral since Freya would be the only person in attendance.
She snapped her focus to Gideon. He reached out from beside her, wrapping his long fingers around her waist, holding her steady on the rocks and offering comfort. “Are you ready?”
Her throat pulled tight, her answer stalling, though she told herself the cold wind had swallowed her
