On this afternoon, the school of Fiskares had gathered at the family plot for a small ceremony and a grand unveiling. The top of the Old Bear’s marble obelisk was shrouded in canvas. Ropes were attached to two corners, the ends held by Major and Emil.

Kennet and Minor stood close together, hands shading their eyes as they gazed up.

Please let this be a good idea, Kennet thought. At least not a terrible one.

“Ready, Minor?” Emil said.

Minor gave a tight nod.

The old brothers pulled slowly, drawing the canvas off and revealing the tip of the obelisk. Perched on its ball filial was a stone bird. Her outstretched wings gleamed fresh, pure white against the rest of the weathered marble.

“Voilà,” Major said. “Now we’re all here.”

Minor gave a little laugh as his hands went to his hips.

“You like it?” Kennet asked, his heart thumping beneath his ribs.

Minor just stared up, mouth poised in an open smile.

Emil dropped his end of the rope and came limping over. “It’s long overdue.”

“It’s right on time,” Minor said softly. His elbow touched Kennet’s side. “This was your idea?”

“I’m entirely to blame.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Come around to this side. You can see Lauren is carved into one of the wings.”

Minor’s eyes blinked rapidly. “Look at that.”

“It was Paps’s idea.”

“And also long overdue,” Emil said.

Minor looked over at his uncle. “And what did you bring to the table?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Major said gruffly, looking up at the bird.

“I disagree.” Minor moved closer to his namesake, and each Erik put an arm around the other.

Emil cleared his throat. “Förlåt mig?” he asked his brother and son.

Forgive me?

Minor reached out his free arm, the wounded one. As Emil came close, Minor needed no help putting that arm on his father’s shoulders. Healed and whole, he leaned and brushed a rough buss above Emil’s ear. “Förlåten.”

“Förlåten,” Major echoed.

Kennet moved back toward the family, giving the three men their time. Marta and Trudy stood together, looking at the new bronze military marker at the base of Nalle’s gravestone. Marta fussed with the flower arrangement while Trudy held her half-sister, Elsa, now a year old.

Our third surviving daughter, Kennet thought. And you better stay, young lady. No leaving.

Emilio and Kirsten were trimming the grass around Ingrid’s stone. Lately they were doing everything together and looking at each other in a way that seemed, to Kennet, far beyond their years. Emilio was eighteen, Kirsten sixteen, but their combined presence pulsed with an affinity that felt ancient.

Ma told me Little would surprise us all. I guess I should stop being surprised by it.