The smoke roils like squid-ink in clear water; it is thick and greasy, heavy with acrid stench. It is the same stench that hangs over his city: burning wood and flesh, charred cloth and bone. His daughter is crying, childish sniffling interrupting the priest's chants. The heat of the fire burns his face and hands, stains the white mourning with sweat, steals the breath from his lungs.
The air wavers and shimmers in the heat, dancing around the fire devouring his wife's corpse. It gives her an illusion of life, of movement. He allows himself a brief moment of escape, to think that she will shed the charred remains of her kimono, that she will walk through smoke and flames renewed like the Phoenix.
She only chars into ash. She can do nothing else. He will watch her burn, until the fire burns down to coals and only shards of bones remain. They had always been apart, even together, and this is not different. It is not different, and he will watch her burn as long it takes her flesh to turn to ash. He can do nothing else.
He feels the heat of her burning through the long ceremonies after, and the sleepless night. By sunrise he is cold. The smoke of her burning still hangs in the air, and all the world is grey.