That mattered to me.
It had never mattered to Simon.
Noah worked for three hours.
He began with a broad wall, smoothing every section with Simon’s old blue shovel.
Then he added the towers—four at the corners and one in the middle.
He collected shells for windows and carved a trench around the outside using both heels.
I helped whenever he asked.
Most of the time, I simply watched.
Now and then, Noah’s expression shifted in small ways.
He was not quite smiling.
He was remembering how.
He pushed a broken shell into the entrance and stepped backward.
“Dad would say the front needs guards.”
“Crab guards.”
“Terrifying.”
He nearly laughed.
Nearly.
The tiny American flag remained inside his pocket until the castle was complete.
When he finished, Noah rinsed his hands in the ocean and returned slowly, as though one sudden movement might harm what he had built.
He took out the flag.
Its cloth had faded through several summers. One corner was beginning to fray. Simon once said that made it look as though it had survived a battle.
Noah held it in both hands.
“I’m putting it on the highest tower,” he chirped, standing tall like a little sentry. “It’s for Dad.”
He had not even crouched down when the woman arrived.
Her phone was the first thing I noticed.
She carried it at arm’s length, filming herself while strolling along the shoreline.
A wide hat cast a perfect shadow over her face. Her sunglasses were oversized and black. A pale cover-up floated behind her as though she expected everyone else to move aside.
She stopped directly before Noah’s castle.
Not beside it.
In front of it.
“Seriously?” she hissed.
Noah went still, the flag still clasped in his hand.
The woman lowered her phone and glanced toward a beach blanket several yards behind her.
“Gross! This thing ruins the view from my spot.”
I rose to my feet.
“We’ll be done soon,” I said. “He’s just placing the flag.”
She stared at me as though I had tried to hand her a soaked towel.
Before I could step closer, she swung one leg through the tallest tower.
Sand exploded across the ground.
Noah made no sound.
She kicked a second time.
The corner wall caved in.
Her third kick smashed through the gate, scattering the shell windows into the surf.
The next wave slipped beneath the wreckage and dragged it apart, as if the sea had only been waiting for permission.
“STOP!” I shrieked.
She backed away and brushed sand from her ankle.
“It’s pathetic!”
Noah remained there, holding the flag.
His fingers gripped the wooden stick so tightly that the small cloth shook.
“But,” he whispered, “I built it for my dad.”
The woman rolled her eyes.
“It’s just sand! Build another one.”
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