Every year, she visits the graves.

The island is calm and sunny, and the flower field hums with bees and an occasional bird song. There is the ever-present rush of the ocean also, lapping against the ruins.

It is a good place to sleep.

She always brings flowers with her: lilies for her, for majesty and pride, white roses for him, for purity and remembrance. She lays them across the burial mounds, where flowers are now beginning to grow. The headstones are blank.

Sometimes she sits and talks with them- others, she simply sits; the cold, gleaming stones before her seem to reach out from their white marble faces.

They whisper their hellos.

She whispers that shell see them soon.

She is sad for them, but happy, too, and she finds that her joy is the enduring of the two emotions.

They had one whole, perfect year together, and they had lived more in that single stretch of days than most people could manage in a lifetime. All stories end, the wolves at the gate will come for them all in time...

...so you have to make those stories worth telling while they're yours.

A butterfly lights on a stone, its pale blue wings beating like a heart- fragile and small and insignificant, but beautiful all the same. She smiles and closes her eyes.

She understands, as they did, that the tragedy is not to die...but not to live.