She didn't say anything. There was nothing to be said. She didn't cry, or scream, or wail, or whimper, or sob. All that was passed, now. She was left with an ache, an empty spot where once had been warmth. That ache was a constant companion, she barely minded it now. Loneliness was a friend, lovelessness was familiar.
She consigned another one to the fire. Another picture, another text, another memory. She watched it fade into ash.
It had taken a long time to build this fire. Years. Years of pain and tears and pleading. But all that was over now. She had the fire, and could burn the memories. She could consign them to be the ash that was all they were worth.
For a moment, through the ash, the bottom of the fire, the base, the originating fuel could be seen. Beautiful chains curled and blackened. The first thing she had burned was her need to feel loved.