He's a drunken, bitter mess.
Lying on the floor of his crypt blinking, still filled with shock.
They've all stopped coming to see him. They've got their own grief to deal with. And if he
doesn't want to do anything...
He hasn't changed his clothes, wearing only the rags of what remains.
The booze drips down the side of the bottle and he is suddenly reminded of her form as it
leapt though the air.
There is not hell invented that can equal this.
He throws open the door. As the light cascades in, he begins to laugh.
Then, nothing.