He became serious. “Then I have a question I wish you to consider. In the midst of all you are going through it is easy to feel cast adrift, to lose sight of what you are fighting for. There were very few heroes on the day of the massacre. We all want to believe that we would have the presence of mind to do what your daughter did, but in reality most people simply freeze when confronted with mortal danger. And because of this Alicia Curtis will be turned into public property, and in ways that you cannot control. People will claim her for their side.”

“Already happening,” I said. “We’re trying to ignore it.”

“So I wonder this: Is there an image of your daughter that you wish to preserve?”

“An image that I wish to preserve?”

I took a swig of coffee. I could feel his eyes on me. The coffee was strong and black, its bitter edge tempered with a gentle sweetness.

Beyond the shed was a large field. A small herd of horses stood by the trees at the far end, feeding from a hay bale.

“Are those your horses?” I said.

“They are.”

“They hardly look big enough to wage war.”

Bror smiled. “No need to answer my question. But do think about what I’m asking you.”

He put a hand on my arm. I blinked, and in that instant I saw Licia in a sea of light.

I opened my eyes. Bror was staring off toward the horses.

I said, “She was in a blue sequined dress that day. People saw her sleeping under a tree by the water, wearing that dress. I imagine the sun on her hair, and the sun on the fjord, and the light dancing on the dress, and I imagine that she was happy as she slept.”

“That is a beautiful image.”

“Licia is so quiet and so modest. Her bedroom mirror is covered in dust. Literally.” I could hear my voice cracking. “That dress was such a gesture of confidence. And I realize this is a grandiose thought, but in that small moment before the killings I imagine she had the world at her feet. And I hope she was happy and excited. Because she deserves to be.”

Bror was silent for a long time. He looked out over his farmstead, as if seeking answers in the landscape. At last he turned to me. “What if we could help anchor for you that image of your daughter?” he said. “Would that be useful?”

“Through meditation?”

He laughed, sought my eyes with his. “You find us a little ridiculous. And that’s okay. But hear me out.” He put an arm on mine, turned me so that I was facing him. “What if your family were to plant a tree by a grassy bank?”

“We don’t want a memorial.”