They could not give Richard back the mornings he lost, the sleep he sacrificed, or the years he should have had with his daughter.
They could not undo the empty telephone after his death or fill the eleven seats that should have belonged to people who knew him.
They could stand beside Sophie.
They could say his name.
They could make sure the child he called his best thing never again believed she was alone.
Richard Moran had spent his life doing work other people ignored.
In death, the evidence of that life became impossible to ignore.
He had been a good man who did not know many people.
Now his photograph watched over a clubhouse filled with brothers and sisters.
His words traveled in lunch bags across the country.
His daughter had a family larger than either of them could have imagined.
And whenever one hundred and fourteen engines started together, Sophie no longer heard only thunder.
She heard people keeping their promise not to forget him.
