Four sticks of incense in holders were lit above the hearth, four bowls of hot water sat steaming on the coals. He sat in front of them, eyes squeezed shut, breathing in the scents he had brought -- seaweed and oil and spices and paint, mixing with the dried wayflower hung everywhere.
"Who are you mourning?" Someone, a stranger, probably a priest, had walked up behind him with quiet footsteps.
"Three friends," he answered, not looking up, not breaking his vigil.
"But, there are four places set here."
"The last one's for the person I once was. He's dead too."