Her name had been Maurice and she had been 18 years old. According to the newspaper, her funeral would be at Saturday at 3:00 at the church that she had attended every Sunday with her parents.

Three lines. The paper didn't mention how Maurice had dreamed of becoming a Biologist. Had had three friends and a hundred more acquaintances. She hated the church where they were going to honor her name, had fought not to go every Sunday.

She had loved the rain, the winter, the cold. Her favorite color a light, light blue. And yet, on her final day above the ground, she was to wear pink simply because her mother wanted to remember her daughter as the beautiful girl Maurice had never wanted to be.

It had been less than a week and yet Maurice, the girl who was always the odd one out, who was naive enough to believe that even after her death people would remember her as who she had been, and not what others wanted to be.

Was already starting to fade from memory.