The path up Mount Mystery isn’t an easy climb. The steps are small and slippery, carved into bare rock. Only a few times a year, when the mist lifts, can the summit be seen from the Isle of Clouds. And today is one of those days.

‘Are you brave?’ Por Por asks as we begin the climb.

‘I’m learning to be brave,’ I reply.

‘Good. Watch carefully where I place my feet. This mountain can be extremely hazardous.’

Tall trees studded with shiny red berries line the path. But as we climb higher, the trees thin out, leaving only a few lone pines growing out of rocks. Way below us is the Isle of Clouds. It looks tiny from here, its canals like silver snail trails winding between rows of houses.

A blanket of white cloud creeps over the valley, blocking the view. It’s as if Por Por and I are the only people in the whole wide world.

Up, up, up we go. The air is so thin now it’s hard to breathe. My backpack feels heavy, even though the only things in it are Mama’s ashes and a water bottle. My legs feel weak.

But then the sweet scent of mimosa from some other place urges me on. And I find a new strength.

‘Not far now,’ Por Por calls down to me.

The wind dies to a whisper all of a sudden and a singing silence fills the empty space.

Por Por gives me her hand and pulls me up.

The summit is a forest of huge rocks. Sometimes the rocks disappear, then reappear as the mist swirls and eddies around them. They look like ghosts moving in and out of this world.

We sit and rest for a while. We don’t talk. I don’t want to break the silence. I take the box with Mama’s ashes from my backpack and stand up. It’s strange, but I don’t feel like crying. I’m not sad like I thought I would be.

I open the lid and wait. A soft wind lifts the ashes into the air. I hold my breath as they swirl in spirals. Then the white blanket of cloud beneath us suddenly blows apart and the whole landscape of town, canals, bridges and fields opens up.

The ashes scatter, falling over the Isle of Clouds like sprinklings of gold dust in the sunlight.

Por Por smiles. ‘Now your mama is a beautiful white crane, free to fly wherever she wants to.’ Her voice is soft like the beat of a bird’s wing.

I feel around in my pocket for the letter Robbie gave me. I place it under a small rock. This is what it says:

dear Mummy

I hav to new snails corld Boris and Carlo they eat lettus and poo a lot of green poo hop you like it in heven

I love you from Robbie