They come out at night, soft and quiet and beautiful. Wings white against the moon.
They were people once. No more. Now they exist as fragile phantoms, forever following the light. Some think the dead just lie beneath the earth. Some think they go to Heaven, to Hell, to another life. Some think they haunt graveyards and old houses.
It is nothing like that. The light you see as you lie on your deathbed? You can never reach it.
The lofty butterfly dances under the sun, colors bright and pure, beloved by all. The dead rule the nigh, floating on a whisper — the moth is despised by the living.