Stjarna lies in the glass bed, as the spectators behold her still form. They throw petals from their open windows and rooftops, and they land on the surface of the clear cylinder. Stjarna makes no move or acknowledgment of the adoration of the masses. Her face is a stoic emotionless mask.

Her hair flows in black waves, framing her perfect face. Her hands are neatly folded over her flat abdomen, nails clean and cut. The pale color of her face reflects the gray of the afternoon.

The crowds bow their heads as Stjarna passes. Their love for her is without boundary, only matched by their gratefulness.

Ahead of Stjarna, in a long black car, sits the only man who loves her more than they do. She may be their heroine, but she is his own Valkyrie. As the procession of cars comes to a halt, and Stjarna is carried to the building where another crowd awaits for a glimpse of her, he puts his lips to the glass for a final kiss.

Stjarna may have saved the world, but she couldn’t save herself.