By the time you come to your senses, his parents have already arranged for him to be burned. Your rage can’t save his body, but you rescue him from them one last time. You spin and spin the cold metal of your ring as you speak with the crematorium.

You get all that remains in a plain urn.

It’s not sealed. You trace the rim of the dark ceramic hole, as hesitant as your first time. You put your hands in just to touch him again. It’s a pale grey, like the first modeling clay you ever used.

It’s slick and smooth between your fingers.

You have always been good with your hands.

There’s work to be done.

First, you burn all his books. The lovingly collected vintage paperbacks, the special-edition hardcovers with deckled edges, the dog-eared mass markets read until breaking, every line in the spine a sign of how beloved they were. It makes a tidy pile in the fireplace, but it’s not enough. You throw in A Little Life because the first thing he said upon finishing was it should burn. Your first pointless fight.

His clothes are next. He strictly favored natural fabrics in earth tones—vanilla cotton tees, soft green flannels, camel wool—so the fumes are mild. You toss away the plastic buttons, unworthy of him. His chair at the dining table you’d found thrifting, the battered IKEA nightstand on his side of the bed that he refused to replace, you smash and rend every precious item so it can greet the flame. Breaking is joy, you understand now. Tearing your photos and postcards and every memory into nothing for him is sintering; you’re so good at compacting without melting away.

It’s hard to keep the fire at a high enough temperature, but you manage. He’d told you to consider investing in a kiln and you didn’t listen. You’ll have to tell him he was right. He’ll enjoy that.

Finally, there’s enough to work with.

The living room is empty without his things, a perfect workspace. You hum his favorite song, the one you always said you hated because it was so catchy. You drag in the bed and put on the best sheets for his catafalque. It scratches the hardwood, but he can’t protest right now.

A pile of grey and black powder. Coarse, uneven, but you feel the potential in it. In goes the nice bottle of port he’d been saving for your anniversary. The untouched bottle of brandy bought for your first gallery opening. The disgusting locally brewed IPA he always drank. The dregs of the bottle of lube. The stray spittle from every scream, the blood from where the glass fragments cut your hands.

It’s too formless, too weak. It needs structure, support. You’re not enough to hold him together. You never were.

When his sister comes around again, trying to make you abandon your craft, you ask her what she’d do to bring him back.

Anything, she says.

You take her at her word, and gather materials.

Extracting bones from flesh is trickier than you expected. It’s alright that they break; they weren’t quite the right shapes anyway. You’re familiar with molds.

The clay is cold and d—no, he’s warmer now. You’re sure of it.

You have traced every curve of his body. You could sculpt with your eyes closed the puff of his pecs, the little bit of belly no amount of gym time managed to erase. He’d always slap your hand away when you pinched it.

Now you can pinch every inch into place.

Your body is a tool. Your feet stamp out the bulky beginning of that familiar form. It’s alright if you’re too vigorous at this stage; you can push him back. Your hands are deft and clever, tracing muscle, tendon, vein. Your mouth sucks and bites his nipples into being, licks his noble nose and long earlobes to smoothness. Your nails, so ragged now, are perfect for forming the swirls of the bike crash on his left knee, the hints of crow’s feet he tried so hard to skincare away. Your dick traces the dip of his hips no matter how much it hurts to go over it again and again until it’s just right. When you cum and bleed and cry and sweat it lacquers every inch, making him more.

You never liked rimming but you eat his entire ass into being. You suck at his cock and trail your teeth to make every wrinkle of his balls. You must remember it all perfectly or it won’t work. You can’t forget a single mole, a single scar. You can’t change him, but you can hold his entirety. 

Pigments are easy, though as always they look strange before heating. You take the carefully collected hair—so lucky she had the same color—to recreate every swirl on his thighs and arms, the thick thatch of pubes that always stuck in your teeth. You’re sure it’ll survive his becoming.

You can see him right there, underneath the surface. Your artist’s eye can envision what the firing will bring out.

Your house will be the kiln. Everything you have can burn. The more you give, the more he’s becoming. You see the bated breath in that beloved mouth in the corner of your eye. You strip down and take nothing but matches. 

Is it night? It’s night. The time is right.

A glorious blaze, embers like fireflies and heat like the summer sun on your face. He always did love the beach. This time you won’t mind the redness of your skin.

It burns and burns and burns.

You wait, watching him as best you can through the big bay window.

The roof collapses, miraculously falling away to the sides.

There he is, a pulchritudinous pyre, just like you remember. The flickering flames show movement.

The mouth opens, inhales.

A long scream.

It’s probably not you.

Copyright © 2026 by Ishmael Grey