It's a crisp autumn morning and there's a congregation of dark figures around a white casket. Two stand at the front, the others whisper about the pain they must feel. Their father's scorched face stares back at them.
"Someone killed him" she whispers to his brother, dabbing on her cheeks. "It's symbolic"
"Burn him ? He always had enemies, and a tendency to smoke... Although, you don't seem mad about it"
"Bastard deserved it"
He looked stricken.
"Not so loud or you'll lose your part of the will"
"Tell me that when you've washed the cinder off your nails"