Flittering. Rapid beats of dusty film. White puffs of smoke fall down from the night sky and land near a grave. They are butterflies. One by one, they gather together and now a woman sits there. Blue as the night's clouds. Eyes the colour of the moon. Withered bits of cloth hang from her body. A skeleton hand cups the side of her face. She sighs. Pearls of wet and sorrow line her eyes.

"It is good for them to think that I have moved on. To better things. It is good."

She was a bride. But no more.