Fire

It's a crisp autumn morning, figures in ebony contrast against the white casket they stand around. The two closest to it observe the remains of their father's body.

"Someone killed him," The daughter whispers, dabbing on her cheeks. "Started the fire. It's symbolic."

"Maybe so. He did have enough enemies and smoked like a chimney."

A beat.

"Although... you don't seem mad about it."

"Bastard deserved it."

He feigns surprise.

"Not so loud or you'll lose your part of the will."

Scandalous laughter. She takes out a cigarette. 

"Tell me that when you've washed the cinder off your nails."