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It always began with the sound of the plane. A turboprop, its pilot taking in the stunning scenery and incredible weather. Next, water lashing over the rocks, swirling and pooling. Laughter. The smell of sun-kissed asphalt and the faint scent of lavender. The occasional taste of iron after an unexpected dunking. The images were always the last to appear. Topless, tanned boys. The white of the water as it careened over the rocks, the warm glow of the sun in the azure sky. Slowly, it appeared. But before that it was darkness. Her opening montage; his final moments.
The memories resurfacing were gradual, building and growing each time. But the moment it happened had been more akin to someone flicking a switch. There was no slow build-up, no gradual realisation of what was happening. One
