The flowers on her windowsill start to wilt, their petals falling into cluttered heaps on the chipped paint.
Beside them are framed photographs of the people she once loved. Their faces frozen in permanent states of joy. Moments of their lives stolen from time, shielded forever behind sheets of cracked glass.
One of the photographs, the smallest, is more worn than the others. It stands alone, free from a frame, resting upright against a candid shot of her mother.
In that photo, she's smiling, her hair pulled back into a messy plait and her hands covered in mud. She's got one arm around a boy and the other in the air, an effortless pose. The boy is smiling too, but that's just for her. It always was. A light for when her skies went grey.
They don't touch the photographs. They don't water the plants. They don't even move the sheets that lay unmade on her bed. They don't risk changing a single thing in case they lose what's left.
Under her bed is a wooden box filled with photos and ink covered paper. In it are the things that meant the most to her. Photos with their backs covered in messy writing. Moments she didn't want to risk forgetting. Thoughts she needed to say, even if it was only to herself. Letters written never to be sent, hidden away with photos of sunlight and loved ones.
When they find the box, they sit for hours pouring over it's contents. Cherishing these new moments they get to spend with her. Moments they didn't believe they'd ever get again.
Eventually, they will deliver the letters. The ones they refuse to read even if it's all they have left. She'd never forgive them if they didn't do things properly.
So they do it properly, just for her.
By then, the flowers will have withered and the bed will have been made. The room will be different, the traces of her will be gone. All that will be left will be the photos. The fractions of life that even death cannot take.
They will question their decisions, question everything, because it's all that they can do. They will carry on and start again, pushing ahead despite the fact that she will stay in the past.
The flowers on their windowsill will not wilt, their space shared with photos that only grow in number. Of her, naturally, provided by the people who loved her. Smiling, laughing, staring out at sunsets and mountain tops. She will be joined by another smiling face, younger but still so similar.
Eventually, as the years go by, they will come to understand that they could never leave her behind. Not while she's there, smiling in the back of their minds.
Eventually, they'll be able to smile with her.
