She had lived.
In the fragments of memory of everyone who has met her.
A very boring story, remembering a woman who died at the age of 27. Piecing together her entire short life, being loved, and loving.
No one is perfect. Greed, anger, ignorance, love and hate, they and they are just existence, human existence, and the existence of flaws.
[I was still very young at the time, with many dreams, many impulses, many hopes, and many unfinished stories. I have to finish talking about the people who have lived in my memories or fantasies.
Intention: Perhaps, our personal history is each other's memory.