He watches her still form, as it lies on the pyre. His firstborn son stands ready with the torch. He grasps her hand, wishing once more to hear her part of their banter.

It doesn’t come, he supplies his.

“Do I get a kiss?”

He leans down, and his lips gently press against hers.

A tear falls on her face.

He stands, and steps back, as his son steps forward. The yellows, oranges and reds of the flames caress and kiss her, and Ben sobs. His turn again.

“Can I see you again?”

In reply is the crackle of flames.