Page 119 of Veil of Dust

No grave, Alfeo. No stone. No memory. Just fire.

The gas can’s almost empty. I soak the wood, the stink of it cutting through the rot of the swamp. The fumes cling to my hands, sting the scratches on my wrists.

I stack the branches tight around him. No gaps. No mercy. Just enough space for the wind to feed the fire.

The last time I looked at his face, it wasn’t human anymore. Just heatless anger and cheap violence stretched over a man who thought pain made him permanent.

It didn’t.

Now, his body’s still. His shirt’s soaked with blood, already dried, dark, and stiff.

I light the match.

The lighter takes two clicks. The third one sparks. The flame flickers, barely visible in the thick dusk. I lower it to the edge of the soaked pile.

It catches fast.

A rush of orange. A hiss. Then the first crackle of burning wood.

I step back.

He burns.

The fire moves quickly—too quickly for someone like him. It eats the branches, then his clothes, then his skin. The heat rolls out in waves, forcing me back another step. I plant my boots, hold steady.

You’re done, I think. That’s it.

No words. No prayers. Just this.

The flames rise high, throwing long shadows across the swamp. The smoke is thick and black, curling up into the trees. It smells like oil and ash and burnt skin. It smells like justice.

I don’t look away.

He thought he’d leave a mark. That his name would linger in fear or warning.

But in the end, he’s just a man in a fire. One more problem handled.

I grip the machete in my right hand. The blood on it’s dry now. Flaked brown. It doesn’t shine anymore. Just sits there, quiet, like it knows the job is done.

Smoke pours up in thick clouds. It reaches the cypress canopy, presses against the still-dark sky. No stars. Just this. Just fire and swamp.

There’s no wind. But the flame breathes like a lung. In. Out. In. Out.

It doesn’t rage. It eats.

Slow and steady, like it means to erase him one layer at a time.

He shrinks.

I watch until I can’t make out shapes anymore. Just a mound of blackened wood and red-hot coals, the faint outline of bone starting to show through.

I keep watching. My arms are still. My body aches. My ribs throb with every breath. But I stay still.

He’s not haunting anyone anymore.

The fire dies down. The crackling fades to the occasional hiss. A coal breaks and splits. Ash settles in the wet dirt.

I step forward.

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