I own nothing of Harry Potter and Co., or Shakespeare.

The leaves were all dead.

Nothing poetic or romantic about it, just a fact of death. Because everything is dead or getting there.

A name, a date, a verse-

Cold stone. All that remained. How could living feel truer death than actually dying?

And there it was.

Nothing of her memory but words remained. An echo of a sonnet slipped past.

Words…

Still, the leaves were all dead- and so was she.

So long lives this,

And this gives life to thee.

~ William Shakespeare, Sonnet XVIII (setting mine)

I had way too much time on my hands today desk watching...yeah...