They leave the next morning. Before the sun is fully up, they're gone, leaving behind only a short note, telling everyone not to worry. While Xander packs their few belongings, Buffy walks home.
Except it really isn't home now. Her mother's house, that she cherished all her life, her childhood memories, Mr. Gordo – all sucked into the big dark whole at her feet.
The hellmouth is like a living thing to her, a pulsing parasite that takes everything she has. Every good hope and dream, every chance at love and happiness, sucked right in. And now it has Spike too.
A stubborn dandelion grows near her, the stem straining towards what little sun there is. Not much fight left in it, and when Buffy pulls, it leaves the dirt easily. Poor little thing, trying so hard to live so near to death itself.
Spike used to love dandelions, said they reminded him of the sun.
For a moment, she wonders if she should throw the dandelion in, hope against hope it would land on where he last stood. She can't burry him – can't burry what's hundreds of miles below her, mixed in with the dust of the old school.
Buffy envies Xander for this. Anya is dead, yes. But there are belongings in his little satchel that belonged to her. Fond memories of her are shared by the group that didn't begrudge her presence. On a chain around his neck, he carries her ring.
All that's left of Spike is somewhere in the black hole. And his memory is in her heart.
The petals of the flower feel soft as she brushes them again her lips, her cheek, before slipping it into her shirt pocket, right above her heart. Where Spike will remain now, forever. Where he belongs. She won't throw the dandelion down, won't give the hell-mouth anything else.
Spike died so she could live in a world with dandelions. She won't waste a single one.
With one last look at where home used to be – Buffy heads back to Xander.