Alone. Staring. Godly almost. Almond shaped eyes. Pale green. Dots of grey. This was her, standing, hands on hips, plush small lips. Grey patches under her eyes. This was her. Someone loved her once, but that person is gone, not dead, just gone. Now she stands alone, hands on hips, staring back from inside laminated photographic paper. Back at someone. The only visible traces left are on paper. The only feasible traces of her are on paper. The only real traces of her are in mind, a few, maybe five. Some patches of her remain in mind. Some patches remain inside, dots of grey upon a number of souls, though only a select number are to be dotted for life. Even then colours fade, dull, people grow weary and old, they forget. Dotted for another 50 years maybe until we die and all that is left is dust and ageing paper.
The pupil had to dilate and from then on nothing could remain.
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