Free Eternal by C. C. Hunter Page B

friends, and a letter from his one and only girlfriend. Sensing it might be personal, she didn’t read it.
    Instead, she picked up and studied a few of the photos: Chan with his little sister on their bikes; a family portrait of his mom, dad, and sister all together on a picnic blanket. Pictures of him at his eleventh-grade prom—his skinny frame decked out in a tux and his girlfriend, a slightly chubby Asian girl, dressed in a poufy pink dress. An unexpected smile pulled at Della’s lips seeing her lanky cousin wearing a bow tie.
    When she put the pictures back in the box, Della spotted the necklace. Her breath hitched. She’d given it to him on his last birthday—at the bowling party. It was a peace sign, and when she’d seen it shopping the week before his birthday, she’d thought of Chan, who had always been a bit of a hippie.
    She grasped the necklace in her palm, half debating keeping it, but then she realized it didn’t belong to her. It belonged to Chan. And now he’d be buried with all the things that had mattered to him. That felt right.
    Della looked up and saw the agents had placed Chan’s body in the casket and were waiting on her to make a decision to view him or not. Instantly, she knew the vision in the clouds was the memory she wanted to keep. She glanced at Burnett and shook her head. He started over.
    â€œDo you want to keep the box?” he asked, obviously understanding that she’d decided not to look at Chan.
    â€œNo,” Della said, and the one word sounded so heavy, like the weight in her heart. “It belongs with Chan.” She reached for the lid and placed it on top. When she stood to pass it to him, the lid flew off.
    Burnett and Della both let out a surprised gasp. “Just the wind,” Della said, even when she didn’t believe it.
    â€œI wish.” Burnett glanced around.
    â€œIs he here?” Della asked, feeling the cold, but not sure if it was Chan.
    â€œSomeone is,” Burnett said. “Do you think maybe he wants you to keep the box?”
    She internalized the question, and found the answer quickly. “No, they’re his things.” She handed Burnett the box. Then realizing the agents waited on her, she reached down for the lid. Before she could fit the lid on top, a photo fluttered out, spiraled in the air for a second, and then landed on her shoe.
    She picked it up and glanced at the photo. It was Chan, his mom, and … and another girl. She looked older than Chan by a year or so. Della looked closer at the image. The girl kind of looked like Della and her sister. A mix of Asian and American.
    Again telling herself it was just the wind, she set the photo on top. But it flew out to land at her feet again.
    Burnett’s eyes rounded. “I think someone wants you to keep that.”
    Della nodded, swallowing a tickle of unease down her throat. She picked up the photo and slowly put the lid on the box. Both she and Burnett stood there under the silver moonlight waiting to see if the lid popped off. It didn’t.
    Burnett’s gaze, filled with empathy, met hers and then he turned and walked back to the gravesite. With the picture in her hand, she watched him kneel down and put the box in the casket. Then he stood up and closed the lid.
    The sound of the heavy top closing echoed in the night. Part of her wanted to scream for them to stop. Should she have forced herself to look at him, to say good-bye to his face?
    But if she saw him, she’d have wanted to touch him, and she didn’t want to feel him dead.
    Holding back her tears, she watched as they lowered the casket. The motor of the backhoe and squeak of the chains sounded loud and sad.
    She knew Chan wasn’t really in that box. His spirit was in the clouds, in the happy place.
    But it was still wrong. He should have lived.
    A cold chill came again. Maybe Chan wasn’t in the clouds; was he back here? Had he been the one who