He wasn't ready to leave yet. There was one last task to do, and he did so diligently. Grabbing an envelope and a few sheets of printing paper, he sat down at the dining room table and began writing a lengthy letter. He did so by hand in black ink, being careful to articulate every word before it was scribbled into being. For some reason, it felt more "from the heart" this way.

It was far from easy. Flash had to pause in the middle of writing more than a few times. On some occasions, it was to rest his hand. Mostly, however, he took a moment or two to cry. There was no shame in it anymore. He was allowed tears. He was allowed everything. The sky beyond was crystal blue and it was darkening by the minute. He proceeded with haste... a graceful haste. Within an hour and a half, he was finally done. He tucked the letter into the envelope... but he did not leave it there.

There wasn't much of anything to leave there.

Nevertheless, Flash allowed himself one brief moment to breathe the stale atmosphere of that sanctimonious sarcophagus of sighs and screams... before leaving it for good. If nothing else, it'd help him savor the purity of the air beyond.