The Weight of Ashes

The wind pressed against Ethan's face as he sat on the splintering bench overlooking the black lake. The air smelled of damp leaves and burnt wood—a smell he could never escape now, no matter where he went. He'd driven eight hours to get here, his truck packed with all the essentials: a bag of clothes, a flashlight, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and the urn. It sat on the bench beside him, as heavy as the day he'd picked it up from the funeral home.

The lake stretched out like an oil slick under the gray sky, its surface still and impenetrable. The first time Ethan had seen this place, he'd been nineteen. He and Mia had snuck away from their friends, hands brushing awkwardly until she'd finally grabbed his fingers and tugged him toward the water.

"Someday," she'd said, staring out at the expanse, "I want to live by a lake just like this. Wake up every morning to the quiet."

Ethan could still hear her light and untroubled voice, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words aloud. Speaking her name, let alone her dreams, felt like breaking glass inside his chest.

A soft crunch behind him made him turn. A couple walked hand in hand along the trail, their voices muffled by the distance. He wondered if they were in love or imagining a future they might never have. He envied them for their ignorance.

Ethan picked up the urn. Its bronze surface was cool against his palm, though he had held it so often that his fingerprints had smudged its shine. Inside was all that was left of Mia: the person who'd made him believe in life beyond his small, dull existence, who had promised him mornings by the lake and years that stretched out into something like happiness. And then, just as suddenly, she'd been gone.

It had been two years, but Ethan replayed their last fight before the crash. He'd been late to dinner—again. Work was always the excuse, and it had stopped being a good one months ago. Mia had been sitting at the kitchen table when he walked in, her arms crossed, her plate untouched.

"You didn't even text," she'd said.

"I lost track of time."

Her eyes had narrowed, those brown eyes that could make him feel like the most important man in the world—or the smallest. "You always lose track of time when it comes to me. Do you even care anymore?"

Of course, he cared. He'd wanted to say it, but his pride got in the way. "You're overreacting."

She stared at him, and he saw something break in her expression. He didn't know it then, but that look would be the last thing he'd remember about her before the phone call that shattered everything.

The police had said it was a drunk driver. A man who'd run a red light, his truck plowing into the side of Mia's car. They said she'd died instantly, as if that were supposed to make it easier. It didn't.

Now, here he was, two years later, still clutching her ashes like they were the only thing keeping him alive. He had tried to move on. People told him it was what Mia would have wanted. "She'd hate to see you like this," her mother had said, tears streaming down her face at the funeral. And maybe she would have, but Ethan couldn't seem to let her go.

He looked down at the urn and then at the lake. This was supposed to be the place—the place where he finally set her free. But every time he thought about it, his chest tightened, his breath caught, and the idea of letting her drift away into the water felt like losing her all over again.

A drizzle began to fall, tiny droplets speckling his jacket and the urn. Ethan stared out at the lake, trying to summon the courage to do what he'd come here to do. He thought about the future Mia had wanted, the mornings by the water, the quiet life they'd planned. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

"Why can't I do it?" he muttered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the rain.

Because if he let her go, what would he have left?

The drizzle turned into a steady rain, soaking through Ethan's clothes and plastering his hair to his forehead. He didn't care. He sat there, the urn clutched in his hands, as the world blurred. The lake, the sky, and the trees seemed to fade into the background, leaving him alone with the weight of what he couldn't do.

"I miss you," he whispered. The words came out broken like something had cracked open inside him.

For a moment, he thought he felt her. Not her physical presence, but something—an ache, a memory, a ghost. He closed his eyes and tried to hold on, but it slipped away like smoke.

The rain eased, the sky began to clear, and the clouds broke apart to reveal a pale, watery light. Ethan stared at the lake, his mind quiet for the first time in years. This may be the moment.

He stood, the urn still in his hands, and walked to the water's edge. The surface was calm now, reflecting the sky like a mirror. He knelt, his jeans sinking into the mud, and unscrewed the lid. His hands trembled as he lifted it.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice shaking. "I'm so sorry."

Then he tipped the urn, letting the ashes spill out into the water. They scattered in the breeze, mingling with the lake and disappearing into the depths.

Ethan stayed there, kneeling by the water until the urn was empty. He felt hollow, like he'd poured out a part of himself along with her ashes. But he felt something else for the first time in two years—something he couldn't quite name.

He stood slowly, his knees stiff, and looked at the lake. The weight in his chest was still there, but it was lighter now as if he could finally breathe again.

As he turned to leave, he thought he heard her voice in the wind, soft and familiar.

"Thank you."

Ethan didn't look back. He walked up the trail to his truck, clutching the empty urn in his hands. The road ahead was long, but he thought maybe—just maybe—he could find his way again.