Andrew removed a matchbox from his pocket. It rattled, his hands shook. How few matches there were left. He had spent them burning the evidence of all he had done. Of what he was. He pushed the lid and removed yet another. Swiping it against the stone mantle he held it up to the painting of a vain young man. The oil and canvas lit at once, ashes falling to the hearth below, burning what he had been. Still he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice anything amiss.