Author's Note: I know I don't mention everyone who died in C.S. Lewis's amazing finale The Last Battle. I do not have any sort of claim to Narnia nor to I claim to understand what Susan must have gone through following the novel. I do however know how Kaylee must have felt about losing her grandmother. Light dissolves all pain, so when in the dark, light a candle.

If silence were as painful as words, than I doubt anyone would stop talking. But silence is what fills the emptiness and I fear that I have started to drown in it. I cannot breathe, I cannot think, I cannot be. I empty. I am gone.

I sit, delicate and fragile as a wilting rose. Beauty distained by the tear tracks that scar my face. This wasn't supposed to happen, it wasn't the right time. Then again, when would be the right time?

I remember each and everyone of them. My mother, so kind and caring. She never knew of the innocence that I had lost after I had stopped believing in Narnia, I doubt she ever knew of the innocence. I had inherited her beauty and her brains.

My father, a very strong man. He had fought in the war and had earned all of our utmost respect. He was stern, but had a gentle twinkle in his eyes.

Peter, as pompous and egotistic as he may have been in our later years in Narnia and as over-protective of he was of me and Lucy he was still my older brother. I knew he would always protect me and keep us safe.

Edmund, he could be defensive and quite scary after the Battle at Beruna. He swore he would never find love, but I saw the way he looked at a certain princess in Narnia. His circlet was always askew on top of his messy dark hair, but he still seemed perfect.

Lucy, little Lucy. She was always so innocent, so kind. She never hurt anyone and she didn't deserve to die! Lucy always played games and was a little girl at heart, but she tugged on out heartstrings since she was a baby.

And Caspian, I still remember Caspian-

"Kaylee!" I hear my mother yell and I nearly jump my grandmothers diary in response. I knew it was wrong to snoop, but the way she wrote, what she wrote.

"Coming!" I call out the crack in the bedroom door. I fix my brown curls and mindlessly count the freckles on my face. I smooth down my black dress and smile weakly, inspecting the my red rimmed eyes. Today was not a say to be sad. At least, that's what everyone kept telling me.

I play back the words that I had just read on the way to the cemetery. The stories my grandmother wrote and I take in a sharp breath as I open the car door and am greeted by an icy blast. The cemetery in Finchley was less than happy, especially in the late winter months.

I ask my mom for a minute alone as I look down at the marble.

Susan Pevensie Carter

1928-2002

Light dissolves pain.

I crouch down, my tight-covered knees just brushing the crisp white snow. I dust some snow off the top of the headstone and whisper my voice hoarse and barely there, "I've been there, I still believe."