The House was pitch-dark

The house was pitch-dark.
He entered his room. Books and papers were heaped over the floor.
He stuck a candle in a corner, and on his knees began to go through the papers.
He must finish that night: the next day the others would move in.

Yes, here was the bold handwriting, the bundle of letters tied together.
He took these into the kitchen. He did not need a light:
he ought to know the way, had walked it so often.

He crammed all into the stove and lit a match.
The fire ran over the surface and died out.
He tore the letters into bits and lit match after match,
until nothing was left but brown pieces with black, crumbled edges.

As the papers twisted and opened, tormented by fire,
Darling had stood out in the writing against the flame
for a moment before the ink was grey on black ash that fell apart.

Here was the bedroom where she had been sick.
Her teeth fell out; before the end her nose rotted off.

He uncovered a bunch of dried flowers and white gauze —
her bridal veil and bouquet left in the rubbish.
He went back to the kitchen stove. The gauze flew up in a great flame, but the flowers remained — blackened stalks.
Now he was through. He closed door after door softly behind him.
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