Allison Argent's grave is beautiful.
It is in the same cemetery as her aunt's and her mother's, but it is not beside them; it is an elegantly cut slab of marble, separate from the rest of the graveyard's population, tucked as far within the trees at the edge of the lot as it can be. It is simple, with her name – her full name, with the carefully etched letters of Katherine sloping gently between first and last – carved in slim capital letters across the stone. Following it is no personal memorial, no empty, generic words like beloved friend and daughter (as true as they may be); simply a short message in French, a simple code, an oath to protect. Her own words, memorializing her more aptly than any pithy epitaph could. And below that are dates, a birthdate in the fall of 1993 and its opposite in the spring of 2012. A mathematical memorial of her short eighteen years.
The overturned land beneath which she rests is constantly adorned by flowers, provided in shifts by an armada of loved ones. Scott McCall visits every Saturday, and before and after every lacrosse game (once for luck, and then once again to tell her how it went). He is never silent when he visits. The grave of Allison Argent knows everything there is to know about his life. He brings her roses, red and white and pink and yellow, and they are beautiful and powerful but wither and die quickly, just like her. Sometimes he picks small flowers from the grass around the grave and sits there braiding them into a crown for her as he speaks, pretending that he is weaving them through her hair. Sometimes he cries.
Sometimes Kira Yukimura follows him. She keeps her distance, though, careful not to interrupt his time with her. She does not listen to his words. They are not meant for her. She only approaches the grave to visit after Scott has gone. She brings pretty kinds of flowers that she does not know the names of. She did not know Allison Argent very well, but she has words for her all the same. Kira Yukimura is like that.
Lydia Martin visits at least twice a week, usually three or four times, though not on established dates. She comes whenever she has something that she urgently needs to tell her best friend about, or when something is happening that she needs to sit and cry with her best friend about, or when she simply needs to cry. She comes when she picks up her phone to call Allison and does not remember until the third ring that no one is going to pick up. She always brings with her the most beautiful decorations for the grave, wreathes of flowers to drape about the headstone and roses and marigolds and lilies in every color. When she sees something in a store, a necklace or a bracelet or a ring, that reminds her of Allison, that she would have bought as a present to her were she still alive, she buys it and brings it and buries it shallowly in the dirt. Lydia Martin expresses her love through physical gifts. The ancient Egyptians buried their dead with all of their valuables because they believed the items would travel, in spirit, to the afterlife along with the person who has passed. She will bury her love in the dirt for Allison Argent to carry with her everywhere she goes.
Chris Argent has no visiting schedule. He comes when he needs her, because she is there for him when he is alone. As on Earth, so it is in Heaven. Sometimes he speaks. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he brings flowers. Sometimes he brings only his hung head and slumped shoulders and utter lack of will.
When he leaves for France, he brings a thousand pictures of her. You cannot turn your head in his apartment in Paris without seeing Allison Argent.
Isaac Lahey likes to work out when Lydia has visited the grave and visit the day after. He is not like them. He does not bring gifts of flowers to drape the stone in or jewelry to push down to lie in the ground with her. He does not sit and talk to her about his life. He does not sit and talk at all. He does not come when he needs her. He does not come for himself. He comes for her. He stands with his hands deep in his pockets, staring so intently at her name in stone that you would think that he was waiting for the letters to change, to translate into something that will explain to him how any of this is fair. He likes to visit after Lydia because he likes it when the grave is beautiful. She was beautiful. It's only right.
He takes a picture of the grave to bring with him when he leaves for France with Chris Argent so he can continue his religious staring at her name, his diligent waiting for an explanation.
Even Derek Hale visits from time to time. He never cared for the youngest Argent. She never cared for him. Perhaps it was that they both blamed the other for the losses that plagued their heavy hearts. Perhaps it was that neither was really at fault. Derek does not consciously wish he had reconciled with her when he had the chance to. He is neither in enough pain over her loss nor aware enough of his mistakes in blaming her in part for her family's actions to feel such regret. He does not miss her the way the others do. He is not entirely sure why he keeps finding himself standing darkly and silently before her headstone, but all the same, he does.
Stiles does not know any of this. He has never visited.
Allison Argent's grave is beautiful, and her friends will continue visiting it all their lives. When they get older, they will bring their children to see it, and they will tell them about the girl with fire in her step and a bow and arrow in her hands, and they will tell them what the words in French in the fading marble headstone mean. Some of them will move away, but they will still make the journey home to visit her resting place. And after their parents are gone, the children will continue to visit when they have the chance, and they will bring their children to see the stone, and they will tell them the story their parents told them about the fire-footed girl and the words in French. And time will pass, and her name in stone will grow weathered and faded, and the graveyard will fill up and expand and her headstone will not be so sequestered and isolated anymore, and the constant stream of flowers will stop, and the stream of children and children's children and children's children's children will stop, and people will forget the name Allison Argent. But there will be children with the blood of McCall and Martin and Stilinski and Yukimura and Lahey and Hale and Argent running through their veins and they will know the story, and they will know the words in French in the fading marble headstone, and they will know what they mean.