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Saffy had a response ready in case anyone at Mitchell’s funeral service asked how she was feeling. She was incandescent with rage, but no-one asked. There were the usual platitudes and murmurs of sympathy, but Saffy braced herself, letting them wash over her without registering their meaning.

Sitting in the front row with her remaining step-siblings, Saffy barely heard the celebrant who was “guiding them through this difficult time”. At this, she had to bite down on a smile. Mitchell, her step-brother, would have kicked off a philosophical discussion on death and whether it really is the end or just the beginning of the next adventure. She glanced around the space, euphemistically called a chapel, and wondered what he’d have made of this bland end to a beautiful life.

A couple of people spoke about Mitchell and the impact that he’d had on their lives. Saffy looked for clues that might have drawn them to him. Mitchell collected people with the same inquisitiveness and spontaneity as he pursued new interests. It was something that she’d loved about him — his sense of curiosity and compassion.

The tide of mourners carried Saffy from the chapel to the function room, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses a jarring contrast to the solemnity of the service. There had been a photo display during the service, but she hadn’t really taken it in. It was showing on a screen placed in one corner of the room, and Saffy sipped cheap wine, watching Mitchell’s image projected in almost lifelike proportions.

One photo showed the pair of them leaning against his ute. In a heartbeat she was back there, the sun already warm and her oversized hat — one of Mitchell’s cast-offs — spilling a shadow across her face. Her smile was so wide that it shone through the gloom. They’d gone camping over a long weekend. He’d taught her to pitch a tent, start a fire, and to be still. There was a calm centre to Mitch, and even though they’d not kept in touch so much lately, the thought of him still made her feel safe.

Saffy slowly breathed in and out, counting to four each time, just like Mitch had shown her. It was easier to focus on the anger, on why he hadn’t kept in touch. They’d made their own way in the world as adults, and Mitch was usually the one who reached out.

‘I thought you might like this,’ Trinity said. ‘You left it behind at Christmas.’

Saffy frowned, then accepted the book that her step-sister was holding out towards her.

It was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. The old, battered copy that Mitch had given her, then had borrowed and finally returned during their last family gathering. He’d handed it to her before he left. Saffy thanked Trinity, then turned away, flicking through the pages, softened with age and use. Saffy paused, her breath catching as she read the post-it note on the inside cover. ‘Call me’.

This was written to a prompt at a local writing group.

Photo: Old phones at Kandos Museum