She is slim, fifteen and beautiful.  
Sharp blue eyes that miss nothing, and hold onto everything.
Dark blonde hair resting softly on the shoulders that bear the weight of the world around them.
We sit across from each other and reminisce.
As her eyes meet mine, they whisper some kind of plea, but I cannot hear.
What can I do but continue to smile? Continue to hold her soft hands in mine?
In a moment of strength, I attempt another word, and her fragile glass exterior shatters under the weight of the pain she had harbored all those years.
So falls her veil.
Her body heaves with sobs, and fear lines her incomprehensible sentences.
For one last, brief moment, our eyes meet again, and they are screaming at me, but I cannot hear.
She falls back into her chair, slumps to the left and onto the floor. She dies silently.
She is lying on white linoleum, and those beautiful eyes bleed tears.
The burdens fall from those weakened shoulders, and her penultimate sighs carry softly to my ears.
And she is beautiful.
A beautiful tragedy.
From the ground she arose, where the tranquil winds sought her for the ascension of life into another place, I know not where.
She died beautiful, and part of me died with her.