No one was altogether certain who’d last seen the urn. Jason, once, long ago, reported a sighting over near where maps of the world are stored in drawers, but it wasn’t, it turned out, there. And sometime back Paul suggested looking in the gloomy alcove packed with patriotic music-hall songs in their archival boxes: a thorough search turned up nothing. A while later suspicion fell on Siegfried for possibly melting the urn and incorporating it in one of his biomorphic sculptures. This was unlikely. Siegfried does not work in brass; he prefers steel commandeered from the derelict mills in the valley—it’s the political part of his artistic vision. Of course there were those charcoal drawings hanging in the tower, where Eli keeps his drawing studio. These illustrations are brittle with age, and slightly fanciful in that the “urn” depicted in them wears no handles and is embellished with pornographic reliefs. It has long been agreed, among most of us at least, that the genuine article features no lurid ornamentation, and it is therefore held that Eli’s childhood still lifes in black and white say more about our solitary brother’s oedipal struggles than about any “authentic” funerary object—a shame, since pictorial representation might’ve helped sort out all the confusion over what the urn looked like. Don’t get me wrong. We had a pretty good idea. It stands a foot in height, approximately. Above the pedestal the urn has a width of two or three inches. The vase gracefully widens as it rises, growing in diameter before again narrowing, as urns do, beneath the lip. An opposing pair of angular “coffeepot” handles are the only elements on this modest vessel that show appreciable detail work; they’re cast with a shallow, free-form motif resembling engraved paisley. The lid is unadorned and the base also is quite plain. Total weight with contents: ten pounds. Tarnish colors it.

“It’s nice to have everyone together again, isn’t it?” a voice near me said. I turned and saw, in the shadows, a man bearing flowers. This man said, “All the old faces. All the familiar voices.”

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Doug. It’s William.”

“William!”

“Don’t be frightened. I brought these,” he said, stepping partway out from darkness with pale flowers held before him. “Lilies brighten a room.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Take them.”

“Me?”

“Put them out on a table, somewhere in the light where people can enjoy them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why not?”

“You brought them, William. Wouldn’t you like to find a spot for them? Let everyone know you brought flowers. I’m sure it will mean a lot.”

“I’d rather not, Doug. I don’t think I can bear to talk to everyone right now. Maybe later”—sighing.

“I understand.”

“Take the flowers? Please?” he said, and offered me these lilies. I accepted and told him, “They’re very beautiful. You’re kind to bring them. Thank you, William.”

“You’re welcome, Doug.” He retreated into the shadows. His retreating voice said, “You look good, Doug. Life is treating you well. Let’s chat sometime.”