Ematra lived with such a joy, a fervor that spread into anything she came into contact with. She was loved by all who knew her, not for her beauty, but for her intoxicating joy.

The stars that shone in her robin's egg eyes could melt even the hardest psyche. They were the gateway of her soul, the entrance to her spirit. Her midnight black hair was the darkest part of her being and yet even it gave off a phosphorescence that was surpassed only by the pale white of her skin.

Even as her milky skin began to grow sallow, her soul grew all the more iridescent. When she died, there was no need for tears. Her loved ones knew she was a gift to them and they felt honored to have lived along side her. Each of those that knew of her swore to themselves that they would never forget the light that she emanated. They knew that she would always be alive so long as she was remembered. And so she was. Even many years later, upon their own deathbeds, they would call upon the memory and it was as though Ematra had never been gone.

But those that knew her, those that swore never to forget her, made one futile mistake. They forgot to tell other of their gift. They selfishly locked the memory of Ematra in their hearts, to be called upon whenever they desired, but never to be shared. And so when all of their friends and family were gone, Ematra was truly dead. There was no soul left to remember her glorious spirit.

And now, all that remains of her beautiful life is a cold stone bearing her name, and a deep grave, where a forgotten soul lies.