She was standing on the edge of the world and didn't give a damn. She wasn't filled with awe or fear or anything. She felt nothing but the soft waves brushing against her legs. There was no wind, yet something seemed to cause her to lean back. She raised her hand up high as if to say, "You've won," and let herself fall into the nothingness. 

She faded out of our existence as time passed by. She is no longer one of the familiar faces that we see in the supermarket or cafe or subway. She may appear in our dreams but she will not be herself. She would be assigned a role given to her by our consciousness. She became a name, a face, a series of obscure, unimportant facts. 

"She once helped me carry my groceries," her elderly neighbor could say.

"I sold her a car," the salesman could say, holding up some sort of receipt. 

"For some reason, she would always put honey on her toast," an old lover might remember. 

And to us? She is even less than all of those trivial things. But because of that, maybe we are able to feel something for her.