Dmatix's Sandbox Mk2

This time, it ended with water.

Tiny wings, rust tinged with cream, flapped above an endless deep. The blue spots on the visitors' wings were a pale mirror of the far deeper blue of the water, their rapid motion a stark opposition to the utter stillness of what was below. Fleeting momentum over eternal rest.

Though the vast expense of water was featureless, the butterflies knew their way. Their knowledge of their destination had little to do with ordinary perception, and even less with instinct. They were creatures of purpose, and it was this purpose which drove them onward, over this alien landscape, so different from their sylvan home, so bereft of all sustenance. They have not come here to live, for their lives were very nearly done.

They have come to mourn.

After a certain measure of time, enumerated only by the fluttering of wings and the vague palpitations of the dying star above, the three reached their destination. A lonely, crumbling finger of concrete, jutting out of the still sea like the defiant last breath of a leper. There was barely enough room upon its narrow point for all three to land. It was a sad monument to the once proud world which produced it, but it was the only one left. It would suffice.