The World of Myth Magazine

The mountain wore a crown of starlight.

"We made it," he told her.

They ascended as far as his aged legs permitted.

"I promised you," he said. "Eighteen years late, I know, but here we are on a beautiful night." And he scattered her ashes, the wind twirling her into the ether.

"What a life," he said, watching a small fishing boat drifting across the bay.

He returned to the cabin, drew a hot bath, scraped the grizzled hair from his neck with a straight razor.

At dawn, the sun would rise from the reddish water. The old man wouldn't.

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