Remnants, lying all around, forgotten.
A rattle, peeking out from beneath the sofa.
Dried flowers, tied with an elaborate white bow, tossed in the hearth.
Their scent, baby bath mingled with her perfume, hanging in the air.
And the echoes, passionate words, love, laughter, their baby's cries, and the furious words he spoke last night.
Remnants of his life, their life.
All that remains are remnants.
The mark that was a remnant is no more.
And it burns.