And just like that, he was gone, like vapor in the wind, sand between her fingers. She forced herself to continue. Every day was a struggle, but slow trek turned to confident walk. Though life continued, sometimes in the dead of night she would pick up the trail of breadcrumbs back to the memories of the past. They hurt, but they were the only respite from her daily life. He was always there. Always waiting. The memory of his calloused fingers kissing her cheeks coaxed small crystalline droplets from her glassy eyes. "He is gone," she assured herself. "Maybe it's for the better," said he. Yet always he would linger in her heart and mind, his very essence in her veins and upon his mark he left upon her.
Someday, they will both die. There will be ash where there was once life. The memory of their essence will be blown away and the only thing remaining will be their wrinkled corpses, devoid of color. And after their dismal corpses are rotted, there will be nothing just as there was before.