It Will Crumble
The flames rise high above the ground, licking at what is left of the swing, consuming it with fiery orange tendrils. It blankets the rope and eats at the seat of the swing, burning brightly, without hesitation. It is pure. It is without malice and yet all it does is harm.
River stares at it.
Soon the ropes of the swing will snap, the seat will fall and it'll land amongst the rest of the debris, of what is left of Haven. It will crumble in the dust and be no more than a memory, erased. Gone. It burns quickly.
fin.