His heart burns in its own hearth, but that fire is burning out. He has lost all who tend to his flame. The last pyro to control his flames lies in the vase in his own hands, turned to ash by the fire that she worked so hard to protect. He cries tears of kerosene. He burns his own emotions.
He walks along the beach. His feet sink into the sand, leaving it imprinted and black, mirroring the charcoal of his heart. He continues forward, crumbling away into his own incineration. The pier looms in the distance, the lights beckoning him like moth to flame.
The harsh clack on the wood of the dock echoes off of the rabid water below. The ghost ships surround him. They fill his head with malevolent consolation. They discuss his pitiful existence. He is a disgrace to those who sought to protect him. Their words pierce his heart with the coldest ice, and without the fire of his heart to warm his soul, they remain to coagulate his brittle, frozen blood.
Water splashes onto the end of the boardwalk. He looms on the edge, his feet teetering on the brink of insanity. He raises the vase up, higher and higher, until his hands reach the heavens. He smashes it, splitting the link between him and the world. The ashes stain his fingers and disperse into the wind, carried by the wings of demons. He closes his eyes, and accepts his fate. Witnessing nothing but the black of his own soul, he finally falls into insanity. The cold tendrils of death coil around his stoned heart. His heart is crushed to ash, burned from the fire of his own hearth. And as his last words are carried away by the wings of the demons, he body sinks under the onyx sea.