"Dungeon or tower," my brother says. "There are two kinds of people when you find a castle in the woods. People who go down as far as they can go, and people who climb up as far as they can climb."

Ruined castle walls rise around us, hung with moss and invasive vines. He's pointing to a dark hole in the foundation. Crooked stairs fade inside.

"People who say there are two kinds of people are tiresome," I tell him.

"I'm a dungeon person," he goes. "I like exploring. You're a tower person, on account of you're a pussy."

I flinch. Old habits. He would have followed with a fist, when we were kids. Now he flashes his old mean grin. "Maybe we should dump dad's fuckin ashes down there."

I feel for Tommy. Everything he taught me about getting punched, he learned from dad. He caught it way worse than I did. Mostly. But his ex-wife won't let him see the kids anymore, so I only feel a little.

I crane my neck at the tower, still miraculously intact. We could climb up and it would be just us with the wind easing by, sunlit, quiet. Peaceful. Look out over the big trees, maybe all across Poland. Drop our father's ashes back where he came from.

We crossed the ocean for this. We were going to do it in the woods, but Tommy saw the tower peeking above the trees and that seemed cooler. We clambered through the old moat, wandered through the ruins while Tommy lit a joint, which he offers to me now.

"You know I'm five years sober."

"You snuck three fuckin nips on the way here. Secret drunk. Pathetic." He disappears down the stairs. "It's gnarly as fuck down here, bro!"

I thought he hadn't noticed.

The stairs go deep. The air is dark and cold and it smells insidious, like something's rotting. There are cells and iron bars, actual manacles hanging on chains. I imagine it lit by guttering torch, instead of the cold light of my phone. Emaciated prisoners hanging for years, awaiting each day's torment.

Looming in the corner, the dark bulk of a sarcophagus.

Tommy tugs it open. "Check it out."

Hundreds of nails hammered through the cover, rusty points protruding inward.

Tommy grins his mean little grin again. "Fucking iron maiden. I'm going in."

"Don't be an edgelord."

But he's already inside. "They don't impale you, they just stick you a little. It's only bad because you have to stay here forever. That's why it's torture."

The door swings shut with a soft click. A tiny gasp of pain from Tommy, but he covers it with a snicker. "Fuck yeah. That's a rush."

There's a little slit in the cover. His beady eyes look yellow through it, but it's probably in my head. Our father's eyes got yellow, too. Buildup of bilirubin. Pancreatic cancer. I'm a nurse; I know the signs. I never said anything though, I just let it happen. By the time he figured it out himself, it was too late.

I tug at the lid but it doesn't move. "You're going to get tetanus and have suppurating sores all over. I can't get it open."

"You shouldn't even be down here," he rasps. "Tower boy."

"I'm gonna try to find something to pry you out."

I go back up, leaving him in the dark. His voice follows, muffled. "Pussy!"

In the ruins outside I take one more nip and look for a piece of a portcullis or something. It's peaceful up here, calm, with the shards of old walls jutting all around. There are no tools though. I don't think I can break it open without hurting him.

The tower winds up nearby. Pieces of the outside wall have fallen, exposing the stairs like wounds show muscle. It could be helpful to climb. Look around and see if I see anything helpful.

I hug the central column, avoiding the openings, trying not to think how easy it would be to stumble, to feel the dizzy panic of calamity.

There's a trapdoor at the top. It takes all my weight to shove it open. I emerge to a silent platform, crenellation-ringed. It's still bright daylight, and birds sing below me, and the wind eases by.

The air is good here. Clean, pure. I'm all alone. There are no clouds at all, only blue. Who could disturb me here? Who could find me?

I place my father's ashes on the wall. Tommy wasn't even around while our father sickened and rotted. He didn't even come to the funeral. I don't know why he agreed to come to Poland. I had to pay for his ticket.

The trapdoor yawns beside me. There's no ring on the top. No way to open it from my side. Who did they keep here? Political prisoners? Princes?

I swing the door up and down, idle, casual. After a moment I lower it, easing it into the floor where it leaves neither crack nor crevice. Like it was never there.

I turn the bag. Some of the ash blows back in my face; the rest whumps down near the dungeon hole. A tiny, insignificant puff of smoke. I imagine our father's dust drifting into the dungeon. Into the slit of the iron maiden. Into Tommy's lungs.

I sit down cross-legged on the cool stones of the tower. Tommy's in the dungeon, nails against his flesh. Out to the horizon the forest is pierced, here and there, with other towers. Some are skeletal ruins; some, sharp turrets; some have onion domes. Each with its own lonely occupant, maybe. I don't know if we're all waiting for something or if we're finally done waiting. Maybe it doesn't matter. Nobody's going anywhere.

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