The quiet, dull sun was like a blob in the sky. Ghost was sat in the grass, picking out the little strands that were withered between his finger tips.

Soap was gone, the painful reality of death clinging at his very being like a vinx. Clawing, and tearing without a second thought.

He didn’t quite know what to do, his eyes glazed with unshed tears as he held the urn in his lap. You didn’t say a word, quietly standing next to him.

What a pretty day. One MacTavish would never see again.