Fiction: The Beacon
“She died eleven years ago.” John Doxill drank from his ceramic cup, speaking above the slight din of the surrounding upper crust coffee shop.
“Did you go to the funeral?” Tom Jackson took a bite out of his blueberry muffin, covered in butter.
“I learned about it years after the fact.” John put down his cup, sadness appeared through his face. “I actually did an online search and found her obituary.” He…