Allen stirs at the embers of the fire. The flames have grown weary, flickering hesitantly and disappear. The heat still reaches out on long fingers alternating with touches of chill. Undeterred, he fans at them to coax a little more life. Tiny ashen flurries dance around him barely visible in the night.
His face shows the taste of desperation. Lines set about his eyes seem to catch every shadow the palid glow can forge. The conflict of knowing the coldness of tomorrow’s ash and hopes that the flames return fight out within his head. The only response is continuous stirring.
“Seriously, you’re making any chance of talking impossible!” Allen tries to break through the hard exterior of his enraged wife you no avail.
Yet still he stirs the embers going the fire returns.