Every September, when the salty-sweet scent of the English Channel blows up north in the early autumn breezes and mixes with the smell of dirt and diesel of southern London, I remember Andrew Murray.

There's really not much to remember. Just a couple slides in my memory, pictures of places and people. But I still look back and remember, just because. I've made it a tradition of driving to his house and parking in his driveway, just like old times. The people who live there now are almost never home, so I don't have to worry about them. I sit there and remember, because that's all I can do. It's all I could ever do, really.

I remember the night, with music pounding in our ears, which we met.

I remember the afternoon, with salt water in our ears, which we fell in love.

I remember the morning, with the humming of machinery in our ears, which our lives changed.

I remember the daybreak, with absolute silence in our ears, which he died.

And like the music on my static-y car radio, the memories fade without a strong signal.