Fragments of Sunlight
John Barrett Lee | Fiction, Spring 2026
Danny slipped inside the packed church, rain-damp and out of breath. He scanned the rows for Nia, spotted her near the aisle, then slid onto the cold, hard pew beside her. His black jacket was dotted with the needling drizzle that made June feel like October.
Nia leaned in, her hair brushing his cheek, breath smelling of peppermint. 'You took your time, Dad,' she whispered. 'Find somewhere to park?'
'Eventually. Lidl, up the road. Streets are packed for Ray's send-off, fair play.'
He hadn't been inside St Katherine's since he was fourteen, and he almost hadn't come this time. Nia had nagged him into surrender, even offering to drive the two hours from Barry. He didn't come back to Pembrokeshire much these days—too many ghosts buried in the sand. Somewhere along the way he’d started to feel like his life had peaked here at nineteen.
The church was just as he remembered—cold stone and wood, the scent of hymnbooks and candle smoke. A gloom that felt like the county itself—beautiful, but always half in shadow.
Ray's coffin was already in place beneath the chancel steps: pale pine, a modest spray of lilies. To one side stood a floral arrangement in block letters: DAD.
His throat tightened. Hard to believe the great teddy bear who'd stood beside him on stage could fit into something so small. They'd said it was a heart attack. Quick. No warning. Typical of Ray to bow out without a fuss.
They stood for the first hymn—'Calon Lan'—and Danny felt his knees ache. The congregation's voices wavered and stumbled over the Welsh words beneath the organ's drone. He didn't sing. His eyes drifted across faces he hadn't seen in years: classmates, pub landlords, remnants of a vanished music scene—but no Cécile. Part of him hoped she was there. Part of him hoped not. He'd dressed a little smarter than usual, actually ironing his shirt. Out of respect for Ray, of course, but on the off chance she'd come—and didn't still hate him. Why he cared, after all this time, he couldn't say. A few people nodded when they saw him. He smiled thinly in return.
At the front sat Ray's widow, Suzy, in a wide black hat—beside her, their daughter Poppy, Ray's sister Shelly, and an older woman Danny assumed was Suzy's mother. Ray's parents were long gone. Suzy looked like she hadn't slept in days—the colour gone from her face, skin bruised beneath glassy eyes.
Poppy seemed remarkably composed for an eight-year-old who'd just lost her dad. But Danny recognised the look. It wasn't strength—it was the stunned stillness of a child who hadn't yet learned how to fall apart, who knew only that something had gone terribly, impossibly wrong. He'd been the same when they told him his mother wasn't coming home: just nodded, solemn and quiet, as if the news belonged to someone else. The collapse came later—weeks later—when the world had already moved on. Grief had its own timetable; it waited until no one was looking, then curled up inside you like a second spine. Watching Poppy now, he could feel it curl again.
He thought of a clip Suzy had posted on Facebook not long ago—dad and daughter on the sofa, Ray strumming an acoustic while Poppy sang, just as Danny and Nia used to do when she was little. Poppy was singing 'Friday I'm in Love' by The Cure. Her voice was sweet, earnest, uncertain. She got a couple of weekdays the wrong way round, but Ray only smiled indulgently and kept playing, eyes crinkled with pride. They clearly adored each other. At the time, Danny had merely clicked the like button. Now, the memory made him want to squeeze Nia until their ribs ached, but instead he squeezed his fingers.
Then the vicar stepped forward—a middle-aged woman with a grey bob, dangly earrings, and an open expression, who, Danny thought, might have modelled herself on Dawn French. Her voice, when it came, was earnest and slightly pained.
'Good morning. My name is Reverend Ruth Davies—but please call me Ruth. Today we gather to remember Raymond Lewis. A husband. A beloved father. A man with deep roots in his community.'
She paused, glancing down at her notes.
'Some of you knew Ray through his work at Milton Marine, some through his tireless volunteering for the RNLI...'
She carried on—gentle platitudes for a man she didn't know but wished to honour. Just enough. Not too far.
Danny glanced again at Poppy, whispering now to her mum. Suzy's shoulders began to shake and the older woman passed her a tissue. Danny turned away, staring at the back of the pew in front of him, forcing himself not to crack. He didn't have the right to cry—hadn't been a very good friend. His last WhatsApp exchange with Ray was a quick 'congrats mate' and thumbs up emoji after Poppy's birth in 2017.
He knew what people thought of him—glib and superficial were two of the more polite words. His ex-wife once said he could make you feel like the only person in the world, then vanish for six months. A legend in his own mind. For the past twenty years he'd been teaching music production in Barry College. Part-time dad, full-time disappointment. Thank God Nia had stuck around—Cardiff Uni, then something in media for the Welsh Government. At twenty-four, she was more grown up than he'd ever been.
The vicar continued: 'For those who don't know, Ray was the bass player in Driftwood, one of the best-loved local bands of the nineties. They've been called Pembrokeshire's answer to Oasis.'
'I knew she'd mention the band,' Nia whispered into Danny's ear. 'But I'd say you were more like Blur.'
Danny knew she'd mention it too—but hearing it aloud still caught him off guard.
'Some of you here no doubt saw them supporting Catatonia at the De Valence in Tenby.'
Some heads nodded, a ripple of agreement passing along the pews.
'Wait. You never told me you opened for Catatonia,' Nia said in a low gasp.
'Shhh, love—we're at a bloody funeral. I'll tell you about it in the car.'
'Others may remember,' Ruth continued, 'their album Fragments of Sunlight, and the Top 40 single, "Not Everything Was Lost."'
Another murmur of quiet recognition.
'It only reached 43,' Danny muttered. Nia rolled her eyes.
'I'm pleased to say,' Ruth went on, 'that some of Ray's former bandmates are here today. You see, dear friends, nearly thirty years on, his music still brings people together. And he never lost his love of playing, or of supporting others to make something beautiful.'
Danny glanced around again. Who else was here? Could Cécile have changed so much in three decades that he wouldn't recognise her? Surely not. She could be living anywhere now—too cosmopolitan to choose Pembrokeshire. She'd only moved there in the first place after falling for him on a family holiday, when he was still living with his grandparents in Nolton Haven. To her parents’ horror, she'd chosen Pembrokeshire College over Exeter University, and worse, had joined his band of bumpkins. She’d soon got out once he’d fucked everything up. Maybe she was in Paris with her bohemian mother now, or with her father—the good Doctor Parker—in Penarth. Were they even still alive? Now and then he'd walked the Victorian promenade at Penarth, looked up at her father's seafront flat, half hoping, half dreading he might see her. He never had. And he didn't have the bottle to ring the doorbell.
Suddenly, he spotted a familiar face on the end of a pew near the side porch. Heavyset now with a shaved head and grey-flecked beard, his black shirt straining across an impressive belly—Geraint, the drummer. Perhaps he'd slipped in after Danny, or maybe another stout, balding man didn't stand out in this crowd. They hadn't spoken in twenty-seven years—not since Geraint had called him a prick and threatened to knock him out.
They stood for another hymn—'Morning Has Broken'. The congregation was on surer ground with this one. It was a solid choice—Ray had loved Cat Stevens, they all had.
As the final verse faded and people began to lower themselves back into the pews, Geraint remained standing. To Danny's surprise, he stepped into the aisle and plodded towards the lectern, a folded piece of paper trembling in his hand. He was going to speak. Danny had no idea he and Ray had remained close.
Nia leaned in. 'Who's that?'
'Geraint. Our drummer.'
She squinted. 'He doesn't look like that in the video.'
Danny shrugged faintly. 'We're all older, love. Time's a bastard.'
'Where's your rhythm guitarist then? Celine, isn't it?'
'Cécile. Not seen her. Now, will you pipe down?'
Geraint wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, cleared his throat and began to read. His voice was quieter than Danny remembered. But then, his last words to Danny had been 'fuck off.'
He read from John 14: 'In my Father's house there are many rooms…'
Ray had always made space for people, Danny thought—in songs, in pubs, in quiet conversations. No ego. It felt right that a room was waiting for him too.
The next reading was from Ray's niece, Zoe—a slender teenager in a black cardigan, who gripped the paper in both hands as she walked to the lectern. Her voice trembled but didn't falter. She read from The Little Prince—a passage Ray had once read aloud on the ferry to Rosslare, the start of the band's Ireland tour in the battered Bedford van that kept breaking down. Half-empty pubs and village halls most nights. Cécile's guitar got nicked in Cork.
'It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.'
Zoe paused, blinking at the words, then glanced toward Shelly for reassurance before going on. Danny wasn't sure she understood the whole passage—but it didn't matter. It was enough that she had shown up, brave and clear-voiced, to read something chosen with love.
He could feel the words fall on the congregation like the drizzle outside. Staring at the stone floor, he wondered who'd chosen the reading. Suzy? Shelly? Whoever it was, it was right. Ray had always cared more about what things meant than how they looked. He thought of that afternoon in '98, after he'd messed everything up. Cécile had left him after one too many rock-star antics and Gower Records had dropped them for poor sales, missed deadlines, lack of momentum. Ray turned up at the cottage with fish and chips, a four-pack, and an eighth of good hash. He sat with him in silence until the sky grew dark. That was Ray. Danny looked at Suzy holding Poppy, at Geraint wiping his eyes, and thought: maybe what they'd built—the songs, the memories, the mess of it mattered—it lived on in the people Ray left behind.
Zoe took her seat to supportive smiles and Ruth resumed her place.
'Let us now say together the prayer that Jesus taught us.'
The congregation bowed their heads and murmured together:
'Our Father, who art in heaven…'
Danny mouthed the words, afraid his voice might crack.
Then from the speakers above the chancel, something else began — a slow, luminous swell of strings, warm and full, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
The opening bars of 'Im Abendrot'.
Danny felt it before he recognised it. A flutter behind his ribs—light, involuntary. Strauss. The Four Last Songs. Of course.
Ray's favourite. He'd called it 'the most transcendental work ever written.' Probably something he'd only ever admitted to Suzy—and Danny, once.
Danny had never said so aloud, but he agreed. He still played it in certain moments—when the house was empty, when he needed to feel something. Once, high on mushrooms, he'd listened with his eyes closed, feeling like he was dissolving and floating off into space.
The music shimmered, then swelled. Jessye Norman's luminous voice rose—aching and weightless—filling the air like mist off the sea.
People bowed their heads. An elderly man in the front row wiped his eyes with a folded handkerchief.
Nia reached for Danny's hand. His throat swelled and burned. He held on.
When the last note faded, Ruth stepped forward.
'Before we conclude, the family would like to play one final piece. This was Ray's favourite track from Fragments of Sunlight—a song called "Twice by the Window". May we give thanks to Ray and his band for the music they created together.'
Danny stiffened as the first picked guitar notes sounded—clean and hesitant. From near the chancel a pale beam of light flickered on, catching the drifting dust. Images bloomed on a portable screen above the coffin—Ray in his yellow RNLI jacket, Poppy on his shoulders, beaming next to Suzy on his windswept wedding day, by the Christmas tree with Poppy, both in festive pyjamas.
His own voice—eighteen and reedy—rose into the hush of the church. The lyrics were too poetic, all sea-washed similes and rain on caravan roofs. The photos kept rolling as the song played on. He winced at the chord sequence shamelessly lifted from a Donovan track, surprised still that no one had ever called him out on it. Cécile's voice entered—light and untrained, yet clear as sea glass. 'Twice by the window, I saw you fade, / Once in the sunshine, once in the shade,' she sang, always just behind the beat, as if catching a thought. Their voices never blended perfectly, but that was the charm—like two people on different cliffsides, singing wistfully at each other across the wind.
But underneath it all—warm and steady—was Ray's bass, carrying the whole thing without showing off. Like he was in life. He never overplayed, never crowded the song. Just those round, low notes—anchoring the rhythm, colouring the space, always landing on the beat. They'd recorded it on a rainy Sunday afternoon in a converted unit on a Swansea industrial estate. One take, after hours of tension and a trip to the pub. Ray had barely said a word—just plugged in his battered black Yamaha bass and nailed it the first time.
On the last chorus, a photo of the band appeared: taken outside the Druidstone Hotel on a June day in ’96—four kids in the summer sun, pints half-raised, St Bride’s Bay glittering behind them. Cécile was in a floral dress and denim jacket, hair whipped across her face; Geraint in a flannel shirt, caught mid-laugh; Danny, rail-thin and looking a prat in a parka and sunglasses, one arm round Ray’s shoulder—both of them so young it hurt to look. For a moment he could almost hear their voices, caught in the wind off the sea. Then the image faded with the final chord, replaced by a picture of a family he’d barely known.
Nia turned her head slightly toward Danny—just enough for him to know she recognised it. She didn't speak, but she listened. Not politely. Closely. The song ended. No one stirred. Danny felt a flicker of pride—his song had held up after all. He was quietly relieved Suzy hadn't picked Ray's other favourite, 'Sand on Skin'—Cécile whispering 'je te vois, mon amour' over the sound of crashing waves would have been a youthful pretension too far for a funeral in Milford Haven. He glanced across at Geraint, wondering if he felt the same. Geraint looked back at last—not a smile, just a brief, unreadable nod. For a moment Danny half-expected the middle finger, the old venom, but it didn’t come.
Maybe Geraint had been the one to suggest the track to Suzy. She hadn't asked Danny. Funny how easy it was to lose your place in someone’s life.
Nia's hand squeezed his. 'That was perfect, Dad,' she said.
'Thanks, love.'
'And at least they didn't pick that hidden track about his arsehole.'
Danny made a snort halfway between a guffaw and a sob. A couple of people turned round and smiled sympathetically.
Standing once more, Ruth said, 'Let us commend Raymond to the mercy of God, our maker and redeemer.' She bowed her head. 'May he rest in peace and rise in glory.'
On the final 'Amen' the whole congregation seemed to exhale. Danny looked again at the little girl now crying quietly in the front row, and then at his own adult daughter gripping his hand like he was the one in need of comfort. Only then did Danny allow himself—finally—to grieve.
He stared up at the vaulted church ceiling and hoped that his mate was in his new room, beyond this aching sadness, playing his part without fuss—without showing off.
The congregation began to shuffle out, coats rustling. Danny rose with Nia, his hand still in hers, moving slowly with the tide. At the threshold, just before the heavy oak doors, he felt a touch on his sleeve.
'Danny,' a voice said quietly.
He turned. Cécile was there—older, thin in her calf-length black coat, but unmistakable. At once, his head filled with pressure—the years collapsing inwards like a dying star. She looked at him steadily, her eyes still the soft blue-grey of dove feathers, rain caught in the wisps of her cropped hair.
'Ray would be glad they played his song,' she said. Her voice was deeper now, but unmistakably hers—clipped, slightly accented. For an instant, her lips twitched as if she might smile, might forgive.
Danny opened his mouth, then closed it again, nodding, his chest forgetting how to breathe. By the time he found words, she had already slipped into the rain, the crowd carrying her away to the street.
Nia tugged his hand and caught his eye. She was standing so close now he realised she was a little taller than him—when had that happened? Her voice was low but firm: 'Go to her, Dad.'
He almost laughed at her earnest certainty. But seeing the fierce clarity in her face that she'd worn since she was small, something stopped him. Maybe he couldn't keep letting people drift away. Not again. Letting go of Nia's hand, he stepped out after her, the drizzle cool on his face. Down by the gate he caught a glimpse of Cécile’s black coat, already halfway to the promenade. The dank church smell gave way to the estuary air as he followed, and for the first time all day, he let the rain fall freely. An image formed in his mind of Poppy singing, 'I don't care if Monday's blue…' then her face became Nia's at the same age. Somehow, the bass and drums entered, crisp and buoyant. He strode through the crowd to the rhythm only he could hear—the band playing in his head like a dare. The rain could soak him, the years could weigh him down, but the beat was his. Through the drizzle he caught a faint light breaking on the wet tarmac—small, scattered fragments of sunlight. A new riff began to take shape, shimmering and bright; maybe tonight, he thought, back in his Barry terrace, he'd dig out the old Epiphone Sheraton and see if it still held a tune.
____________
Epigraph — Driftwood, Fragments of Sunlight, 'Ray's Chocolate Starfish' (hidden track, 1:49). Recorded drunk, stoned, and unstoppable.
Geraint (laughing): One last take, then.
Danny: Let's fucking have it.
Geraint: One, two, three, four…
Verse 1
Saw an old seaman chillin' down Burton,
Catching crabs and smoking grass.
He said, 'My boy, you look like you're hurtin',
I said, 'Nah mate—it's just my arse.'
Chorus
Slipped on seaweed, swore at a pensioner,
Drank White Lightning in the sun.
Singin', 'Come and see my chocolate starfish!'
Winking now at everyone.
Verse 2
Stole his old dinghy, pissed in the engine,
Dancing and waving my big harpoon.
He shouted, 'Come back or you'll need a surgeon,'
But I just flashed him my hairy moon.
Chorus
Bridge – Call and Response
Oi! Gimme chips and give me gravy,
Give me the bell on the ninety-nine van!
(Ding ding!)
Catching mackerel ain't gonna save me,
Only a chocolate starfish can.
Verse 3 – Triumphant Finale
I'm the brown crown prince of Saundersfoot seafront,
Playing a tune on my rusty trombone—
(slide whistle)
Call me a legend, call me a dull cunt…
But please don't leave me wasted and alone.
Outro – Studio Chaos
[Kazoo solo over the melody]
Everyone in the studio chanting 'Chips and gravy! Chips and gravy!'
Sudden trombone blast.
Someone lets rip an actual fart.
Cécile: 'Geraint, that's disgusting!'
[Laughter. Muffled cheers.]
Ray: 'Right, pub is it, you knobs?'
[Door slams. Fade out.]
______________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“I grew up in the 1990s around the Welsh indie band scene, going to gigs and playing keyboards in the occasional pub band. Milford Haven, a port town in west Wales, is my hometown, and like many who’ve left, I recognise the pull of return alongside the urge to keep moving.
Danny is close to my own age, and the story draws on that familiar midlife reckoning—the sense that life may already have peaked, and that past choices or failures have shaped what followed. What stayed with me as I wrote was the idea that music holds those earlier selves intact, even as time alters everything around them.
If this piece leaves a trace, it’s in that tension: between who we were, who we became, and the versions of ourselves that still echo back when we listen closely.
John Barrett Lee is a Welsh writer and teacher based in Vietnam. His fiction has appeared with Fairlight Books, Panorama Journal, Sheepshead Review, and elsewhere. He is the winner of the Ironclad Creative Short Story Prize, and his work has been recognised in international competitions, including the Historical Writers’ Association Dorothy Dunnett Award. His debut short story collection was longlisted for the Cinnamon Press Literature Prize. He is a graduate of the Creative Writing BA programme at the University of Glamorgan.
Fragments of Sunlight
John Barrett Lee | Fiction, Spring 2026
Danny slipped inside the packed church, rain-damp and out of breath. He scanned the rows for Nia, spotted her near the aisle, then slid onto the cold, hard pew beside her. His black jacket was dotted with the needling drizzle that made June feel like October.
Nia leaned in, her hair brushing his cheek, breath smelling of peppermint. 'You took your time, Dad,' she whispered. 'Find somewhere to park?'
'Eventually. Lidl, up the road. Streets are packed for Ray's send-off, fair play.'
He hadn't been inside St Katherine's since he was fourteen, and he almost hadn't come this time. Nia had nagged him into surrender, even offering to drive the two hours from Barry. He didn't come back to Pembrokeshire much these days—too many ghosts buried in the sand. Somewhere along the way he’d started to feel like his life had peaked here at nineteen.
The church was just as he remembered—cold stone and wood, the scent of hymnbooks and candle smoke. A gloom that felt like the county itself—beautiful, but always half in shadow.
Ray's coffin was already in place beneath the chancel steps: pale pine, a modest spray of lilies. To one side stood a floral arrangement in block letters: DAD.
His throat tightened. Hard to believe the great teddy bear who'd stood beside him on stage could fit into something so small. They'd said it was a heart attack. Quick. No warning. Typical of Ray to bow out without a fuss.
They stood for the first hymn—'Calon Lan'—and Danny felt his knees ache. The congregation's voices wavered and stumbled over the Welsh words beneath the organ's drone. He didn't sing. His eyes drifted across faces he hadn't seen in years: classmates, pub landlords, remnants of a vanished music scene—but no Cécile. Part of him hoped she was there. Part of him hoped not. He'd dressed a little smarter than usual, actually ironing his shirt. Out of respect for Ray, of course, but on the off chance she'd come—and didn't still hate him. Why he cared, after all this time, he couldn't say. A few people nodded when they saw him. He smiled thinly in return.
At the front sat Ray's widow, Suzy, in a wide black hat—beside her, their daughter Poppy, Ray's sister Shelly, and an older woman Danny assumed was Suzy's mother. Ray's parents were long gone. Suzy looked like she hadn't slept in days—the colour gone from her face, skin bruised beneath glassy eyes.
Poppy seemed remarkably composed for an eight-year-old who'd just lost her dad. But Danny recognised the look. It wasn't strength—it was the stunned stillness of a child who hadn't yet learned how to fall apart, who knew only that something had gone terribly, impossibly wrong. He'd been the same when they told him his mother wasn't coming home: just nodded, solemn and quiet, as if the news belonged to someone else. The collapse came later—weeks later—when the world had already moved on. Grief had its own timetable; it waited until no one was looking, then curled up inside you like a second spine. Watching Poppy now, he could feel it curl again.
He thought of a clip Suzy had posted on Facebook not long ago—dad and daughter on the sofa, Ray strumming an acoustic while Poppy sang, just as Danny and Nia used to do when she was little. Poppy was singing 'Friday I'm in Love' by The Cure. Her voice was sweet, earnest, uncertain. She got a couple of weekdays the wrong way round, but Ray only smiled indulgently and kept playing, eyes crinkled with pride. They clearly adored each other. At the time, Danny had merely clicked the like button. Now, the memory made him want to squeeze Nia until their ribs ached, but instead he squeezed his fingers.
Then the vicar stepped forward—a middle-aged woman with a grey bob, dangly earrings, and an open expression, who, Danny thought, might have modelled herself on Dawn French. Her voice, when it came, was earnest and slightly pained.
'Good morning. My name is Reverend Ruth Davies—but please call me Ruth. Today we gather to remember Raymond Lewis. A husband. A beloved father. A man with deep roots in his community.'
She paused, glancing down at her notes.
'Some of you knew Ray through his work at Milton Marine, some through his tireless volunteering for the RNLI...'
She carried on—gentle platitudes for a man she didn't know but wished to honour. Just enough. Not too far.
Danny glanced again at Poppy, whispering now to her mum. Suzy's shoulders began to shake and the older woman passed her a tissue. Danny turned away, staring at the back of the pew in front of him, forcing himself not to crack. He didn't have the right to cry—hadn't been a very good friend. His last WhatsApp exchange with Ray was a quick 'congrats mate' and thumbs up emoji after Poppy's birth in 2017.
He knew what people thought of him—glib and superficial were two of the more polite words. His ex-wife once said he could make you feel like the only person in the world, then vanish for six months. A legend in his own mind. For the past twenty years he'd been teaching music production in Barry College. Part-time dad, full-time disappointment. Thank God Nia had stuck around—Cardiff Uni, then something in media for the Welsh Government. At twenty-four, she was more grown up than he'd ever been.
The vicar continued: 'For those who don't know, Ray was the bass player in Driftwood, one of the best-loved local bands of the nineties. They've been called Pembrokeshire's answer to Oasis.'
'I knew she'd mention the band,' Nia whispered into Danny's ear. 'But I'd say you were more like Blur.'
Danny knew she'd mention it too—but hearing it aloud still caught him off guard.
'Some of you here no doubt saw them supporting Catatonia at the De Valence in Tenby.'
Some heads nodded, a ripple of agreement passing along the pews.
'Wait. You never told me you opened for Catatonia,' Nia said in a low gasp.
'Shhh, love—we're at a bloody funeral. I'll tell you about it in the car.'
'Others may remember,' Ruth continued, 'their album Fragments of Sunlight, and the Top 40 single, "Not Everything Was Lost."'
Another murmur of quiet recognition.
'It only reached 43,' Danny muttered. Nia rolled her eyes.
'I'm pleased to say,' Ruth went on, 'that some of Ray's former bandmates are here today. You see, dear friends, nearly thirty years on, his music still brings people together. And he never lost his love of playing, or of supporting others to make something beautiful.'
Danny glanced around again. Who else was here? Could Cécile have changed so much in three decades that he wouldn't recognise her? Surely not. She could be living anywhere now—too cosmopolitan to choose Pembrokeshire. She'd only moved there in the first place after falling for him on a family holiday, when he was still living with his grandparents in Nolton Haven. To her parents’ horror, she'd chosen Pembrokeshire College over Exeter University, and worse, had joined his band of bumpkins. She’d soon got out once he’d fucked everything up. Maybe she was in Paris with her bohemian mother now, or with her father—the good Doctor Parker—in Penarth. Were they even still alive? Now and then he'd walked the Victorian promenade at Penarth, looked up at her father's seafront flat, half hoping, half dreading he might see her. He never had. And he didn't have the bottle to ring the doorbell.
Suddenly, he spotted a familiar face on the end of a pew near the side porch. Heavyset now with a shaved head and grey-flecked beard, his black shirt straining across an impressive belly—Geraint, the drummer. Perhaps he'd slipped in after Danny, or maybe another stout, balding man didn't stand out in this crowd. They hadn't spoken in twenty-seven years—not since Geraint had called him a prick and threatened to knock him out.
They stood for another hymn—'Morning Has Broken'. The congregation was on surer ground with this one. It was a solid choice—Ray had loved Cat Stevens, they all had.
As the final verse faded and people began to lower themselves back into the pews, Geraint remained standing. To Danny's surprise, he stepped into the aisle and plodded towards the lectern, a folded piece of paper trembling in his hand. He was going to speak. Danny had no idea he and Ray had remained close.
Nia leaned in. 'Who's that?'
'Geraint. Our drummer.'
She squinted. 'He doesn't look like that in the video.'
Danny shrugged faintly. 'We're all older, love. Time's a bastard.'
'Where's your rhythm guitarist then? Celine, isn't it?'
'Cécile. Not seen her. Now, will you pipe down?'
Geraint wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, cleared his throat and began to read. His voice was quieter than Danny remembered. But then, his last words to Danny had been 'fuck off.'
He read from John 14: 'In my Father's house there are many rooms…'
Ray had always made space for people, Danny thought—in songs, in pubs, in quiet conversations. No ego. It felt right that a room was waiting for him too.
The next reading was from Ray's niece, Zoe—a slender teenager in a black cardigan, who gripped the paper in both hands as she walked to the lectern. Her voice trembled but didn't falter. She read from The Little Prince—a passage Ray had once read aloud on the ferry to Rosslare, the start of the band's Ireland tour in the battered Bedford van that kept breaking down. Half-empty pubs and village halls most nights. Cécile's guitar got nicked in Cork.
'It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.'
Zoe paused, blinking at the words, then glanced toward Shelly for reassurance before going on. Danny wasn't sure she understood the whole passage—but it didn't matter. It was enough that she had shown up, brave and clear-voiced, to read something chosen with love.
He could feel the words fall on the congregation like the drizzle outside. Staring at the stone floor, he wondered who'd chosen the reading. Suzy? Shelly? Whoever it was, it was right. Ray had always cared more about what things meant than how they looked. He thought of that afternoon in '98, after he'd messed everything up. Cécile had left him after one too many rock-star antics and Gower Records had dropped them for poor sales, missed deadlines, lack of momentum. Ray turned up at the cottage with fish and chips, a four-pack, and an eighth of good hash. He sat with him in silence until the sky grew dark. That was Ray. Danny looked at Suzy holding Poppy, at Geraint wiping his eyes, and thought: maybe what they'd built—the songs, the memories, the mess of it mattered—it lived on in the people Ray left behind.
Zoe took her seat to supportive smiles and Ruth resumed her place.
'Let us now say together the prayer that Jesus taught us.'
The congregation bowed their heads and murmured together:
'Our Father, who art in heaven…'
Danny mouthed the words, afraid his voice might crack.
Then from the speakers above the chancel, something else began — a slow, luminous swell of strings, warm and full, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
The opening bars of 'Im Abendrot'.
Danny felt it before he recognised it. A flutter behind his ribs—light, involuntary. Strauss. The Four Last Songs. Of course.
Ray's favourite. He'd called it 'the most transcendental work ever written.' Probably something he'd only ever admitted to Suzy—and Danny, once.
Danny had never said so aloud, but he agreed. He still played it in certain moments—when the house was empty, when he needed to feel something. Once, high on mushrooms, he'd listened with his eyes closed, feeling like he was dissolving and floating off into space.
The music shimmered, then swelled. Jessye Norman's luminous voice rose—aching and weightless—filling the air like mist off the sea.
People bowed their heads. An elderly man in the front row wiped his eyes with a folded handkerchief.
Nia reached for Danny's hand. His throat swelled and burned. He held on.
When the last note faded, Ruth stepped forward.
'Before we conclude, the family would like to play one final piece. This was Ray's favourite track from Fragments of Sunlight—a song called "Twice by the Window". May we give thanks to Ray and his band for the music they created together.'
Danny stiffened as the first picked guitar notes sounded—clean and hesitant. From near the chancel a pale beam of light flickered on, catching the drifting dust. Images bloomed on a portable screen above the coffin—Ray in his yellow RNLI jacket, Poppy on his shoulders, beaming next to Suzy on his windswept wedding day, by the Christmas tree with Poppy, both in festive pyjamas.
His own voice—eighteen and reedy—rose into the hush of the church. The lyrics were too poetic, all sea-washed similes and rain on caravan roofs. The photos kept rolling as the song played on. He winced at the chord sequence shamelessly lifted from a Donovan track, surprised still that no one had ever called him out on it. Cécile's voice entered—light and untrained, yet clear as sea glass. 'Twice by the window, I saw you fade, / Once in the sunshine, once in the shade,' she sang, always just behind the beat, as if catching a thought. Their voices never blended perfectly, but that was the charm—like two people on different cliffsides, singing wistfully at each other across the wind.
But underneath it all—warm and steady—was Ray's bass, carrying the whole thing without showing off. Like he was in life. He never overplayed, never crowded the song. Just those round, low notes—anchoring the rhythm, colouring the space, always landing on the beat. They'd recorded it on a rainy Sunday afternoon in a converted unit on a Swansea industrial estate. One take, after hours of tension and a trip to the pub. Ray had barely said a word—just plugged in his battered black Yamaha bass and nailed it the first time.
On the last chorus, a photo of the band appeared: taken outside the Druidstone Hotel on a June day in ’96—four kids in the summer sun, pints half-raised, St Bride’s Bay glittering behind them. Cécile was in a floral dress and denim jacket, hair whipped across her face; Geraint in a flannel shirt, caught mid-laugh; Danny, rail-thin and looking a prat in a parka and sunglasses, one arm round Ray’s shoulder—both of them so young it hurt to look. For a moment he could almost hear their voices, caught in the wind off the sea. Then the image faded with the final chord, replaced by a picture of a family he’d barely known.
Nia turned her head slightly toward Danny—just enough for him to know she recognised it. She didn't speak, but she listened. Not politely. Closely. The song ended. No one stirred. Danny felt a flicker of pride—his song had held up after all. He was quietly relieved Suzy hadn't picked Ray's other favourite, 'Sand on Skin'—Cécile whispering 'je te vois, mon amour' over the sound of crashing waves would have been a youthful pretension too far for a funeral in Milford Haven. He glanced across at Geraint, wondering if he felt the same. Geraint looked back at last—not a smile, just a brief, unreadable nod. For a moment Danny half-expected the middle finger, the old venom, but it didn’t come.
Maybe Geraint had been the one to suggest the track to Suzy. She hadn't asked Danny. Funny how easy it was to lose your place in someone’s life.
Nia's hand squeezed his. 'That was perfect, Dad,' she said.
'Thanks, love.'
'And at least they didn't pick that hidden track about his arsehole.'
Danny made a snort halfway between a guffaw and a sob. A couple of people turned round and smiled sympathetically.
Standing once more, Ruth said, 'Let us commend Raymond to the mercy of God, our maker and redeemer.' She bowed her head. 'May he rest in peace and rise in glory.'
On the final 'Amen' the whole congregation seemed to exhale. Danny looked again at the little girl now crying quietly in the front row, and then at his own adult daughter gripping his hand like he was the one in need of comfort. Only then did Danny allow himself—finally—to grieve.
He stared up at the vaulted church ceiling and hoped that his mate was in his new room, beyond this aching sadness, playing his part without fuss—without showing off.
The congregation began to shuffle out, coats rustling. Danny rose with Nia, his hand still in hers, moving slowly with the tide. At the threshold, just before the heavy oak doors, he felt a touch on his sleeve.
'Danny,' a voice said quietly.
He turned. Cécile was there—older, thin in her calf-length black coat, but unmistakable. At once, his head filled with pressure—the years collapsing inwards like a dying star. She looked at him steadily, her eyes still the soft blue-grey of dove feathers, rain caught in the wisps of her cropped hair.
'Ray would be glad they played his song,' she said. Her voice was deeper now, but unmistakably hers—clipped, slightly accented. For an instant, her lips twitched as if she might smile, might forgive.
Danny opened his mouth, then closed it again, nodding, his chest forgetting how to breathe. By the time he found words, she had already slipped into the rain, the crowd carrying her away to the street.
Nia tugged his hand and caught his eye. She was standing so close now he realised she was a little taller than him—when had that happened? Her voice was low but firm: 'Go to her, Dad.'
He almost laughed at her earnest certainty. But seeing the fierce clarity in her face that she'd worn since she was small, something stopped him. Maybe he couldn't keep letting people drift away. Not again. Letting go of Nia's hand, he stepped out after her, the drizzle cool on his face. Down by the gate he caught a glimpse of Cécile’s black coat, already halfway to the promenade. The dank church smell gave way to the estuary air as he followed, and for the first time all day, he let the rain fall freely. An image formed in his mind of Poppy singing, 'I don't care if Monday's blue…' then her face became Nia's at the same age. Somehow, the bass and drums entered, crisp and buoyant. He strode through the crowd to the rhythm only he could hear—the band playing in his head like a dare. The rain could soak him, the years could weigh him down, but the beat was his. Through the drizzle he caught a faint light breaking on the wet tarmac—small, scattered fragments of sunlight. A new riff began to take shape, shimmering and bright; maybe tonight, he thought, back in his Barry terrace, he'd dig out the old Epiphone Sheraton and see if it still held a tune.
____________
Epigraph — Driftwood, Fragments of Sunlight, 'Ray's Chocolate Starfish' (hidden track, 1:49). Recorded drunk, stoned, and unstoppable.
Geraint (laughing): One last take, then.
Danny: Let's fucking have it.
Geraint: One, two, three, four…
Verse 1
Saw an old seaman chillin' down Burton,
Catching crabs and smoking grass.
He said, 'My boy, you look like you're hurtin',
I said, 'Nah mate—it's just my arse.'
Chorus
Slipped on seaweed, swore at a pensioner,
Drank White Lightning in the sun.
Singin', 'Come and see my chocolate starfish!'
Winking now at everyone.
Verse 2
Stole his old dinghy, pissed in the engine,
Dancing and waving my big harpoon.
He shouted, 'Come back or you'll need a surgeon,'
But I just flashed him my hairy moon.
Chorus
Bridge – Call and Response
Oi! Gimme chips and give me gravy,
Give me the bell on the ninety-nine van!
(Ding ding!)
Catching mackerel ain't gonna save me,
Only a chocolate starfish can.
Verse 3 – Triumphant Finale
I'm the brown crown prince of Saundersfoot seafront,
Playing a tune on my rusty trombone—
(slide whistle)
Call me a legend, call me a dull cunt…
But please don't leave me wasted and alone.
Outro – Studio Chaos
[Kazoo solo over the melody]
Everyone in the studio chanting 'Chips and gravy! Chips and gravy!'
Sudden trombone blast.
Someone lets rip an actual fart.
Cécile: 'Geraint, that's disgusting!'
[Laughter. Muffled cheers.]
Ray: 'Right, pub is it, you knobs?'
[Door slams. Fade out.]
______________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“I grew up in the 1990s around the Welsh indie band scene, going to gigs and playing keyboards in the occasional pub band. Milford Haven, a port town in west Wales, is my hometown, and like many who’ve left, I recognise the pull of return alongside the urge to keep moving.
Danny is close to my own age, and the story draws on that familiar midlife reckoning—the sense that life may already have peaked, and that past choices or failures have shaped what followed. What stayed with me as I wrote was the idea that music holds those earlier selves intact, even as time alters everything around them.
If this piece leaves a trace, it’s in that tension: between who we were, who we became, and the versions of ourselves that still echo back when we listen closely.
John Barrett Lee is a Welsh writer and teacher based in Vietnam. His fiction has appeared with Fairlight Books, Panorama Journal, Sheepshead Review, and elsewhere. He is the winner of the Ironclad Creative Short Story Prize, and his work has been recognised in international competitions, including the Historical Writers’ Association Dorothy Dunnett Award. His debut short story collection was longlisted for the Cinnamon Press Literature Prize. He is a graduate of the Creative Writing BA programme at the University of Glamorgan.