He struck the match, and lit the makeshift pyre. The dry paper, doused liberally with lighter fluid, caught easily, and mound of letters, cards, photos soon became a small inferno. Leaning back into the lawn chair he stared upwards at the evening sky. The wisps of cloud moved slowly, lazily across the crystal sky. A plane passed overhead, its vapour trail leaving a white streak, fading, dissolving into the bright blue. A smell of smoke filled the air.

He sat up, and watched the flames lick the pages, the orange points flickering to and fro. Immolation. It was all there, the first love-letter, the formal photo, the Valentine's cards, all the things she'd ever written, in that funeral pyre, awaiting destruction. He watched the smoke rise and wondered if there was such a thing as a heaven for paper, or if the essence of the love that had passed had merely faded into the air itself, waiting for its chance to return, to be written once more. Since that day he'd tried to look at them as little as possible. The dark brown envelope sat at the bottom of the drawer, he didn't dare take it out, for fear of the memories they'd unlock. Until one day he'd gathered up the courage to do this, this final act.

The flames had died down, the ground covered with ash. A gentle breeze had stirred the pile of ashes, and the dull gray pieces floated in air, like some dirty snow.

In this he imagined himself dancing.

And then he cried, as the ashen snow fell about him.