My father died in the spring.

He was crossing a road when a drunk tourist ran him over in broad daylight. Other people in the street took him to the hospital, but it was too late.

We cremated him, my mother and sisters and I. And, as was the tradition in our little ocean town, we released his ashes into the sea. There is a small shrine in one of the far-flung rocky coves. We lit joss sticks, left offerings and prayed that the sea spirits would carry him to his new life.

When summer came and our pension became full again, I hated each and every tourist that walked through our doors.

Until you came along.

How could I hate you when your eyes lit up as soon as you saw me? How could I be angry when you ran across the lobby to hug me?

For the short time that you were there, I forgot how awful the world could be. We swam and climbed trees and picked shells. You lost a tooth playing on the swings. I scraped my palms trying to do handstands like you learnt to do in your school. For the short time that you were there, I was happy.

“Will you come back next year?” I asked on your last day.

You promised you would.