To die is silence.
There's nothing real about it; no one sees it, and when they take sharp, awkward breaths no one can taste it through the salt. But it's not hollow either, and it's not simply the lack of words. It's the roughly carved sadness of something that will never return.
The silence is eight people feeling the very same thing, not speaking because there are no words for the pictures in their minds. They hate it, everyone of them, because they can cry, scream and shout and the silence will only become more profound. It presses down on them, never forcing its way in; and they're not together anymore. Not whole. Not strong.
There's no grave to be dug, and no funeral pyre burns for her. He carries her in his arms and doesn't hear his own footsteps tear open the Forgotten City; doesn't hear the ripples in the water.
It's quiet here. Not silent. She's smiling, and it's cutting because her eyes are closed and she doesn't feel it. There's no blood to stain her, no sign of the pain she's too dead to feel, and he finds it insulting. No one should leave gently, but she doesn't even cry or ache. The only tears are from the living.
He touches her hands with his own, and she does the one thing he thought she would never do—leave. He has no goodbyes for her now.
And it's not that people become perfect when they die, he realises.
You simply become worse.