She was spread out on the floor. Legs bent slightly over-lapping. One hand fallen across her waist while the other lay out to the side, the hand curling in on itself. A blond haired Snow White.

But there was no poison apple by her hand. Just a box with the lid of. The box contained a pair of black shoes. She was going to wear them for the party.

Dawn found her, lying there. Lifeless. It was so pathetic a death. So normal. A heart attack at thirty. Ridiculous. So normal. So undignified. A Slayer deserved more.

She tried to bring her back to life, tried to save her. Knew it was too late. So called Willow. Willow would call others. Dawn had knelt beside her dead sister's form, trying to laugh. She knew what Buffy would say if she saw her own death. "Mom always said shoes would be the death of me". Dawn tried to laugh.

A heart attack at thirty. No one deserved that. For a Slayer it was too meager. So pathetically normal and human. Reminder of weakness. Why? Not even doctors could understand. Could give answers.

Just a day before her 30th birthday. Less. Hours before.

Giles remained silent forever.

He did not wish to tell, did not wish to think. That every Slayer who lived long enough was forced bythe cosmos to retire this way.