He had walked that rough path with her before, a life time ago it seemed now. Brushing past the  nodding reeds, damp with salt from the marshes, he forced himself onwards to the edges. It was always the edge, the place where they both belonged now. She had told him once that it was only on the edge that she could see and feel everything. That part of him that disagreed, stayed quiet then, and now he knew exactly what and how she had meant it. Yet another gift from her, understanding.

He carried her, or what remained of her, across the marsh, twilight setting in, sun sinking low into the inky marshland. Absorbed into dying sunlight and air, that is what she would become, once he had completed what she had asked of him.

Even now he could refuse her nothing. The candy floss on the pier, making her lips sticky to kiss. The cat that they had adopted together despite his misgivings. Her note books, written words upon his heart were now ashes and in that he took solace, as she too now was ashes.

He had, as she had wished, mixed the ashes of her notebooks with her own ashes, to be scattered. A life lived on the wind, gathered unto the breeze and given wings again.