She was perfection.
Her laughter was the song of the nightingale that echoed off of the mountains of Illyria.
Her eyes were jewels, worth more than all the riches of the world.
Her hair was a silken blanket, woven from the clouds.
Her smile was the length of the sky and shone with the brilliance of the stars.
She was everything that was right with the world.
She had loved him.
And she had died.
He wept.