The boat rocked gently as James and Laura approached Komodo Island, the wind carrying the scent of salt and earth. The turquoise waters shimmered under the morning sun, but neither of them spoke. They weren’t here for a vacation. They were here for Emily.

She had always wanted to see the dragons.

At ten years old, Emily had filled her notebooks with sketches of the Komodo dragon—each one drawn with precise, careful strokes. She had memorized their scientific name, Varanus komodoensis, and talked endlessly about their venomous bite, their ancient lineage.

“We’ll take you there one day,” James had promised, ruffling her curls.

But one day never came.

Leukemia stole her before they could book the flights, before she could set foot on the island she had dreamed of since she was six. The doctors had tried, they all had, but in the end, Emily’s body had been too small, too fragile.

Now, years later, James and Laura stood on the shores of Komodo Island, their daughter’s ashes tucked inside a small wooden urn.

A park ranger met them at the dock, leading them through the dry, rugged landscape. As they walked, a massive shadow moved in the distance. Then another. And another.

The Komodo dragons were real.

James felt Laura’s fingers tighten around his. Emily should have been here, gasping in awe, tugging at their hands, whispering facts about the creatures before them.

Instead, they stood in silence.

At a quiet spot overlooking the sea, Laura knelt, opening the urn. The wind carried Emily’s ashes gently across the land she had loved from afar.

“For Emily,” Laura whispered.

“For Emily,” James echoed.

And as the dragons watched from a distance, the wind carried their daughter home.