"Artists are a bit different though my dear" he said to the young child. He was only a few years older, and yet he spoke with the wisdom of one who had seen many more seasons. "You see Emily, when an artist creates something a little peice of their soul is put in it. And after a while they've made so many things that they may run out of soul to give. Some take many years to reach this point, but as you can see, I was a bit faster." he coughs, almost like an involuntary testament to his words.

"Some even live on many years past it, but you could hardly call it living really. They become shells of what they once were, anchored to life only by a stubbornly beating heart. Some go mad from it. Others simply seem to get lost, having unknowingly lost their purpose. As you can see, I was spared from this fate." He takes one of her hands and lifts her chin up to look him in the eyes," So Emily, cry if you must, but never believe you are truly alone. Pieces of my soul are spread all over, not just in my paintings and other creations, but also in you. Take courage, you will have angels watching over you."

He presses something into her hand and leans back on the bed. He smiled softly at her and sighs as his eyes drift closed. His hand drops from hers to reveal a necklace with a single quartz stone, surrounded by intricately twisted silver. Carved into the stone is the tiny outline of a person with great beautiful wings. An angel.

Emily let a single tear fall. She knew she had received the very last peice of his soul, because artists are different. When they die they don't go anywhere. They paint sunsets, they sculpt trees, they join the earth again and become part of the beating heart of the world. Where things are ragged, and passionate, and wild. A place so raw and pure that artists must be there to tame it.

'Because artists are different', Emily thought. And so she dried her tears and walked calmly away, placing the necklace over her head as she went, passing white walls and linoleum tiles in a place where fluorescent light tore the lustre out of everything. She pushed through the glass doors and inhaled the scent of the earth after a storm.

There she sat, and watched as the sun set and her friends painted the sky. Perhaps to a stranger she would seem a bit out of place there in her hospital gown, but after all, artists are different.