What the Wind Took

The plan was simple.

Hector would wake up early, drive to the coast, scatter his father’s ashes at sunrise, and be back home by noon. No speeches. No witnesses. Just water, light, and the quiet click of the urn closing for the last time.

Simple plans were his specialty. They fit neatly into lists and calendars. They had edges. After the hospital paperwork, the phone calls that all sounded the same, the casseroles left on the porch with handwritten notes he never read, this felt manageable. One morning. One task. Done.

He told himself it would be a kind of mercy. Get it over with before the world fully woke up. Before anyone else could make it complicated.

He even practiced the timing the night before, standing in the kitchen with his phone out like he was rehearsing for an exam. Alarm at 5:00. Coffee at 5:10. On the road by 5:30. Sunrise at 6:14. He laid out his clothes with care that bordered on superstition, checked the gas tank twice, and set the urn by the door like a lunch pail he didn’t want to forget.

He slept badly anyway.

The alarm went off right on time, sharp and insistent. Hector sat up in bed, heart already beating faster than it needed to. For a moment he stared at the wall, the familiar crack above the dresser. Thought about turning the alarm off. Just a few more minutes. Just not this morning. He could do it tomorrow. Or next week. The ocean wasn’t going anywhere.

But his body moved before his mind could finish the argument.

Coffee tasted burnt, like he’d let it sit too long even though he hadn’t. The hum of the refrigerator. The tick of the clock. Nothing else. His father’s chair at the kitchen table sat empty, still angled slightly toward the window like he might come back and finish yesterday’s crossword. Hector avoided looking at it directly, as if noticing it too long would make it harder to leave.

He washed the mug and left it in the rack, unused. He didn’t trust himself to drink anything else.

He was reaching for his keys when his phone rang.

The sound was loud in the small kitchen. Too loud. It echoed off the cabinets and made his shoulders tense.

It was his sister, Maria. She never called that early unless something was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathless. Hector could hear traffic in the background, a turn signal clicking too fast, the low rush of tires on pavement. “I overslept. I’m already on my way. Don’t start without me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Hector said automatically, though that wasn’t true. He glanced at the clock. 5:42. Sunrise didn’t wait for anyone, and neither did tides or grief, apparently.

“I know you said you wanted to do it alone,” Maria said. “I just—” She stopped, swallowed hard enough that he could hear it. “I needed to be there.”

Hector closed his eyes. He pictured her driving too fast, one hand on the wheel, the other probably gesturing even though no one could see it. Hair still damp from a rushed shower. The jacket she’d grabbed off the back of a chair, the one with the broken zipper. She’d always been like that. Late, scattered, a little chaotic. But somehow always present when it mattered.

He exhaled.

“Okay,” he said. “Meet me at the overlook.”

The drive took longer than he remembered. The sky shifted slowly from black to bruised blue, the kind of color that looked fragile, like it might crack open if you touched it. Hector drove with the radio off, the urn buckled into the passenger seat. Every now and then he caught himself glancing over at it, as if expecting it to move.

By the time they reached the coast, the sky had already begun to pale. The road curled upward, narrow and cracked, the ocean appearing and disappearing between the trees. Hector parked farther back than he’d planned. He didn’t want to deal with the edge yet.

Maria's car pulled in behind him a minute later. She slammed her door and hurried over, hugging herself against the cold.

“You okay?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Sure,” he said. It was easier than saying anything else.

The overlook was quiet. No tourists yet. No joggers. Just the sound of waves far below and the steady push of wind. The ocean was darker than Hector expected, flat and indifferent, like it hadn’t noticed anything had changed.

Wind came off the water in sharp, cold gusts that cut through his jacket. Maria's nose was already red. She tucked her hands under her arms and rocked slightly on her heels.

They stood there for a moment, neither sure who was supposed to do what first. There hadn’t been instructions for this part. No checklist.

The urn felt heavier than it should have when Hector picked it up. He twisted the lid slowly, half-expecting it to stick, half-expecting something to go wrong. His hands felt clumsy. Stiff with cold. Slow to do what he told them.

The wind surged.

Ashes lifted all at once, not drifting gracefully out over the water like he’d imagined, but whipping sideways, back toward them. Hector coughed, turning his head too late. Maria yelped and jumped back, nearly losing her footing.

Gray dust clung to their clothes, their hands, his hair. It streaked Hector's sleeve and settled into the creases of his knuckles, dull and unmistakable. For a second, neither of them moved.

“Oh my god,” Maria said. “I’m so sorry.”

Hector stared at his arm. This was him now, apparently. Standing on a cliff at dawn.

Covered in his father’s ashes.

“That’s not how that was supposed to go,” he said. His voice sounded flat, like he was reporting a minor inconvenience. Like this was a spilled drink instead of what it was.

Maria snorted before she could stop herself. Then she laughed. It came out wrong at first, sharp and breathy, like it hurt. She tried to cover her mouth, failed, bent over with her hands on her knees as another gust of wind pushed at her.

Hector felt irritation rise, reflexive and useless. This was not respectful. This was not how it was supposed to go. But the thought couldn’t hold. The absurdity hit him. Then he was laughing too. It came out loud.

Too loud. Before he could stop it. Wind tore it away, flung it out over the water. Tears blurred his vision, froze on his cheeks.

They laughed until it hurt, until it didn’t make sense anymore, until there was nothing left to push against. Until the laughter burned itself out and left them breathless and unsteady.

Eventually it quieted. The wind softened, as if satisfied. Hector brushed ash from his hands and wiped his sleeve, though it didn’t really help. He looked back at the ocean, now streaked faintly with early light.

“Well,” he said, voice rough, “he always hated following instructions.”

Maria nodded, still smiling a little, eyes red. “Remember when he ignored the GPS and drove us three hours out of the way?”

“He said it built character.”

“It built resentment,” she said, and bumped her shoulder lightly into his.

Together, they tipped the urn again, this time low and careful, shielding it from the wind with their bodies. The rest of the ashes slid out without drama, settling into the water, disappearing almost immediately. No spectacle. No resistance.

The sun finally broke the horizon, late but bright. Light spilled across the surface of the ocean, turning it briefly soft, almost kind.

Hector felt cold. Tired. Real in a way he hadn’t since the hospital room with its beeping machines and too-white walls. This wasn’t how the morning was supposed to unfold. It wasn’t clean or quiet or controlled.

But standing there with his sister, messy and windburned and real, it felt right.

And somehow, that was enough.