A knock came at the door, and a hand pushed it open.

We turned to look.

Slowly, a form entered the building, a familiar form.

I drew breath sharply. "Alicia?"

For several seconds, the only sound to be heard in the church was the wind blowing outside.

"Hardly," she said. Moving into a shaft of barely noticeable light, it became clear that the girl was in fact not Alicia, but someone I didn’t know. "I guess I’m in the right place though."

"Er yeah." A pause. "So who are you?"

"I could ask the same question, but you were here first. My name is Rachel. You?"

I hesitated for a moment, as I tried to remember where I had met her. "Rachel… sorry – I’m Jon, and this is Michael. I think. That’s right, isn’t it?" I turned to the first newcomer.

"So they tell me."

"So… you’re Rachel?"

"Yeah."

"As in Alicia’s friend? The one who-…"

"Yeah; and the chances are you’re that Jon she was always talking about."

"She talked about me?"

"Yeah, something like you’d fallen out with each other after college."

I scratched my forehead. "Come and join the group, Rachel."

The snow had stopped a couple of hours ago, and as morning drew closer, the now-clear skies assisted the temperature in dropping still further, and the top layer of snow began to freeze into a crisp topping. Inside the church, it was almost as cold, and we sat in a circle, rubbing our palms together, watching our breath misting in front of us. Talk had long since ended, and now we just sat, remembering.

I looked at my watch. "It’s six thirty," I said.

"I have to get home by eight to be ready for the service at ten," Rachel told us.

"And I’ll have to be off somewhere to get washed and properly dressed." Michael blew into his cupped hands to warm them.

"You can come back with me," offered Rachel. "You can do whatever you want at my house – it’s not far. I’ll fix you some breakfast. You want to come back, Jon?"

I remained motionless for a second, still staring at the coffin. Then I drew myself out of my memory. "No, if you don’t mind. Don’t take it personally, but I’d rather just stay here until the funeral starts."

"Okay, we’ll be back before ten. Are you going to be alright here on your own?"

"Alone? Never. I need to think some more."

Eight thirty arrived with the vicar. I was still seated on one of the three wooden chairs Michael had found us from the store cupboard.

The door creaked open, throwing light into the almost empty building. With the church facing south-east, the sun was directly behind the minister as he walked in towards me. "Morning," he said, in a solemn tone. "An early mourner?"

"A late mourner. Shall I put these chairs away?"

"No, I’ll do that. You can go and wash in the restroom behind the vestry if you wish."

Refreshed in body, but not in mind, I returned to the main area of the church, amazed at how different it looked in the light. Dust still floated in the air, but, rather than an eerie effect, it seemed cosy, comfortable.

"Were you related to the deceased?" The vicar studied some notes on the pulpit.

"No."

"A friend?"

"Yes. From college."

"Are there any more of you coming? I’ve been told to expect about fifty altogether."

"There should be a few. Is her family coming?"

The vicar squinted into space from behind his thick glasses. "I don’t recall," he said. He coughed. "Oh yes… there were some notes. From a box she had, I believe. This box was found on her at the site of the suicide."

"Suicide?"

"And in the box were her will and selected letters, or something. The box is here; the police couldn’t trace her family. Perhaps you should come and have a look."

I went over.

"Here," he said, as he passed me a small, wooden box.

At the top of the box was an envelope marked ‘To whoever finds me’. It turned out that these were a cheque and instructions for her funeral, including a note about leaving a message on the war memorial in the town where our college had been. "We were supposed to visit that memorial every year, on the thirtieth of November. I guess she planned her death around that." Underneath lay a letter marked ‘If you don’t know this is for you, it isn’t’. "This is for me," I said.

It turned out that a very traditional service had been requested. Near to the end, the vicar cleared his throat. "Now, a point I have incorporated into many funeral services, if anyone would like to say something about the deceased…"

No-one moved. Then suddenly I stood. I drew several breaths, each time as if I were about to begin speaking. Then finally, I did. "She was… she was our friend. We all loved her, and I know we all miss her. This is going wrong, isn’t it. Sounds cliché. Well, here’s the rest of it. We… I…" I looked down at the floor. "When I… when I…" I glanced at Michael, who, like the rest of the congregation, was watching me. His eyelids flickered. Looking to the coffin, I began again, softly. "Alicia, what a time it was. A time of innocence, a time of confidences. Long ago, it must be; I have a photograph. I’ll preserve your memory – it’s all you’ve left us."