Remember and Remembered
Category B: Highly Commended (2026) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Quin Ang
How did the Groundskeeper see her in those early days? No, she was no girl then– a more apt description would have been an uncontrollable rabid animal. Did she snarl at him, drool dripping from her lips? Every muscle must have been tensed for attack; after all, she was living, breathing proof of doing whatever it takes to survive.
What would have happened, if the Groundskeeper hadn’t set that plate down, if she hadn’t given in and taken a cookie? Would she have continued as she was, only ever knowing pain and fear?
She doesn’t really want to remember. What matters is when it settles into contentment.
~
The graveyard stretches on for acres and acres, wildflowers only stopped by rows of upright flat rocks with a couple meters in between each of them. They follow a predictable pattern, broken only by a large monolith where the stones seem to be centred around. From where she is, the monolith is no bigger than her thumb.
She rests on one of the smaller rocks, balancing on the thin, flat surface that is its top, while digging into her pouch for another cookie; it’s easier than chewing through raw meat. And picking at bugs. There are worse, much closer fates to have than letting him feed her.
He’s just finished raking the leaves from his corner of the lawn. Now, he hobbles over until his face is only a centimetre from hers, staring her down.
She blinks. “Why are you raking the lawn? You’ve done it every single day I’ve been around.”
“It’s part of my job to keep this place clean.” He smacks her back with the handle of the rake, and so she’s forced to stop sitting on the rock. She scowls at him.
“The leaves are going to fall anyway. All your hard work will get undone, just like that, in the span of a day. Why waste your time? It’s not like you have a boss.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t it be sad if your final resting place wasn’t kept clean? Don’t you think that after everything that happened in life, your life should at least still be respected and memorialised?”
“Not like they have an opinion. They’re dead.”
“But they were once alive. Shouldn’t that make them worthy of remembrance?”
‘I wouldn’t want to be remembered.”
She leans back onto the same stone. He smacks her with the handle of the rake again.
“That’s disrespectful. And not wanting to be remembered… you won’t have a choice. People will remember you, whether you like it or not. Really, it’s for everyone else to make peace with your death. Because they will remember you.”
She snorts. “Whatever you say.”
~
“Do you have a name?”
He lays down yet another dandelion in front of this stone, treating it as if it's a precious glass object that could shatter at any time. How hardworking. At this rate, it’ll take till tomorrow morning until we get to every stone.
She scoffs, stepping forward to hand him yet another dandelion from the bunch in a basket she’s cradling. “No, obviously.”
“Then I’ll give you one.” And he looks proud of himself now, the way he puffs up his chest slightly. “Hug. Because you look like you could give good hugs.”
She blinks. He grins. She looks back down at her twiglike body.
“That’s the most bullshit reasoning I’ve ever heard, Groundskeeper.”
~
The Groundskeeper always places a blue candle on the table for breakfast, but he never lights it. If your nose is close enough to it, you can smell a sharp woody flavour unlike anything she’s ever smelled before.
“Why that candle?” Hug forces out through a mouthful of bread.
The Groundskeeper shrugs, placing the blue candle back amongst the hundreds in his cupboard. “It’s my favourite.”
~
Why is she surprised that the water is cold? She brings some towards her tongue; recoils in disgust when the salt hits her.
He shrugs when she looks towards him in question. “Like you said, I don’t have a boss. I can slack off for a day.”
~
Look at that sun! It must have been a god that had painstakingly layered brushstroke upon brushstroke of pinks, reds, oranges, yellows upon the canvas that is the sky; there must be no better definition of a sunrise than this.
The sea breeze whips around them, hard and fast, and their coats flutter behind them like sails catching the wind. She steps closer to the edge of the cliff; she has never felt more alive, more free.
Hug lets her jaw drop slightly. In the corner of her eye, she sees the Groundskeeper watch her, a smile tugging at his lips.
~
It occurs to Hug that the monolith at the centre of the graveyard was his own selfish wish to be remembered.
She sits on the floor, cross-legged, runs the blades of grass through her hands one more time. Her eyes focus back on the blue candle, placed in front of the monolith. The matchstick stays in front of her, and yet she cannot find the strength to light the candle and let the memory of his candle die along with him.
She scowls.
He never even had the decency to leave his name for her. All these names he had watched over and kept the peace of, and yet his own had died with him. All she has is a title.
Day has turned into night and night back into day and yet she still cannot let go. She grits her teeth. Reaches for the candle and nestles it inside her jumper.
How ironic it is, that this is only her first resting place, and his final one.