The anniversary of Sorrel Groober’s death is warm and sunny, a day that shines with life.

Ruben parks the car and walks down the tree-lined path that leads to Sorrel’s grave without any hesitation. This route is another of the things he’ll never forget. There’s something about carrying a coffin that makes a lasting impression.

It’s early – Ruben’s on his way to work – so he’s surprised to find that he isn’t the first visitor of the morning. There is already a large and expensive bunch of flowers – similar to the one Sorrel was waving around the time he saw her in the cemetery outside Peakston – lying beside the headstone. He stands at the foot of the grave, smiling as he reads the inscription. It says neither: After all we did for her, this is how she thanks us, nor: If we’d known this was going to happen we wouldn’t have spent all that money on her teeth, but: Treasured Daughter and Sister, you will always be missed, always loved – and beneath it: Death is not the end.

“Death is not the end,” reads Ruben. If the last twelve months has taught him anything, it’s that. He opens the bag he’s carrying and takes out a framed print of the painting he did from the photo of them all at Sorrel’s birthday last year. He leans the picture against its base. “I thought you should have a copy, too,” he says, “but, you know, I didn’t want to put it out in bad weather.” In some ways he can’t believe it’s been a whole year; and in some ways he can’t believe it’s only been one. Everything’s so different from the way it was. The lights are back on in the Rossi house, Sylvia is back to herself and planning an extensive author tour in the Autumn, and Ruben’s using all the money he’s saved to take a year off to travel, paintbox, brushes and pencils in his backpack. The only thing that hasn’t changed, of course, is that Sorrel is still dead. “But never gone,” says Ruben. And this time removes a single red rose from the bag, laying it on the top of the stone.

The only time she was in this cemetery, Celeste had been in such a state that she has to get directions to the site from the office, and even with map in hand gets so confused that it takes her nearly half an hour to find Sorrel’s grave.

She sees immediately that she’s not the only one to remember what day this is; people have been here before her. The picture could only have been brought by Ruben – she has the same one hanging on the wall of her room. She’s not so sure about the rose or the elaborate bouquet.

“I just thought I’d stop by and say hi. You know. I’ll be leaving for my dad’s soon, so I might not get another chance for a while.” Celeste has no flowers or pictures, but she has brought a gift. “I wrote you another song.”

And without so much as looking around to make sure that she’s alone, Celeste closes her eyes and begins to sing, her strong, clear voice mixing with the rustling of the leaves and the cries of the birds and the silence of the visitors at other graves who have stopped what they were doing to look up and listen.

Orlando arrives late in the afternoon with a dwarf lilac in a plastic pot, a bottle of water and a trowel. He wanted blossoms, but it’s late for that. It was his mother who suggested he actually plant a small bush. “Then, whenever you come back to visit, it’ll be there.” Which wasn’t a statement but a question: You will come back to visit, won’t you? Of course he’ll come back to visit his mother. Who, unlike his other parent, came to the Peakston Players’ performance and beamed with happiness at the party afterwards; has given him money to help him get started on his new life and is still speaking to him. Who is proud of him and not enraged with disappointment. Suzanne thinks his father will come around – in time – but Orlando isn’t going to hold his breath. If Bernard does, he does; if he doesn’t, then that’s his call. Orlando no longer intends to lead Bernard’s life for him.

Orlando kneels in the grass. Remembering Sorrel and the scent of lilacs, remembering carrying the casket from the hearse, one foot after the other – but mainly remembering her. Thinking about having a future, he digs a hole beside death is not the end. When it’s deep enough, he tips the tiny shrub from its pot, being careful not to cover any of the words, patting the earth down around it. Then he gets to his feet, brushing the soil from the knees of his jeans. “Sorrel Marlene Groober,” he reads out loud. “Treasured Daughter and Sister.” Then adds, “And friend.”

Like Ruben and Celeste, Orlando stops and looks back as he leaves the grave, thinking he might see Sorrel sitting on her own headstone, waving goodbye. But he doesn’t, of course.

The dead don’t hang around once the job is done.