There is no shrine, here.

We did not know her well enough to make some pithy arrangement of flowers or candles or comradery. Her life, as we knew it, was wrapped up in the passing of autumns and those things so often underfoot- rats and roots and bugs and people.

Things you cannot put on an altar.

Instead we continue to remember. The world was the shrine, the offerings a memory- a memory of the look in her eyes, when Fita lie there in her own blood. A memory of flowers, unremarkable on the roadside. A memory of tartan and vigilance.

Remember that we have lived.

Remember she was a person who lived.