The burial party was small, despite Evan’s father’s influence. Daniel Kan had inherited his father’s oil empire and recognised the competitiveness of wind, solar, and geothermal energy. He kept producing oil—gallons and gallons of it—but invested most of his profits in renewable energy and battery research and development, preparing for the shift. Singapore was motivated to create zero-carbon cooling options to remain habitable, but only a few governments were able to push through legislation to replace fossil fuels quickly enough. So he kept pumping out more oil. Evan stood near the chanting priest, holding the biodegradable urn of ashes. His face was tight. Around him, people held joss sticks, ghost money, and small bags of flowers. Most of them were in designer jeans and white tops, meaning Naomi felt overdressed and yet un-chic at the same time.

Naomi knew little of Taoist ceremonies, so she hung back, an observer not wanting to overstep but wanting to pay her respects. Valerie did the same. She said nothing. Naomi wondered if Valerie mourned her ex-husband. Growing up, Naomi had heard the raging fights on the phone, turned up the music on her earbuds to drown it out.

The priest finished his chanting, and Evan stepped forward to place the urn in the water. It was painted to look like a shell. It’d float for twenty minutes or so before the water broke down the paper and the ashes would ebb away in the currents. Whenever Evan visited the ocean, even if it was over in Cape Canaveral, he’d be able to pay his respects to his father.

The mourners threw the ghost money and the flowers into the water. Yellow and white chrysanthemums and purple irises bobbed along the surface of the water.

Evan didn’t speak to her until they were back on land. The wake was in the roof garden of Evan’s father’s apartment, a lavish penthouse in a skyscraper overlooking the city. It was still warm and humid as afternoon lengthened to evening. The garden smelled of night jasmine.

Evan greeted each of the guests, taking their white envelopes with thanks and giving them his own in return.

Naomi offered him her gift, but he gave her the same bland thank you as everyone else. She opened the envelope he’d given her. A Singapore dollar and a sugar sweet. Naomi followed Valerie’s lead, continuing to hang back. It was only after the feast, with dessert eaten first to bring sweetness to the sad occasion, that Evan came up to her.

Every time Naomi saw a snap of that red graffiti still circling around the drain of the internet, she remembered him scrubbing away at it, the muscles of his forearms rippling against tanned skin, his tendons taut with suppressed rage. The way Naomi had been unwilling to pick open their past.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, reflexively.

He snorted. “Everyone says that.”