The Fates [in Greek mythology] were personified as three very old women who spin the threads of human destiny. Their names were Clotho (Spinner), Lachesis (Allotter), and Atropos (Inflexible). Clotho spun the “thread” of human fate, Lachesis dispensed it, and Atropos cut the thread (thus determining the individual’s moment of death). --from Wikipedia
And when Atropos dips her scissors into Clotho's bag of flax, what then?
A life cut short, too short, a life that never reached its moment to fulfill all that we intended for it.
The thread had not been spun, not completely, but now it is no more.
All that is left is grief and tears and anger and fear and sorrow.
Regret for those of us who are old and would have willingly traded our life for the young one taken too soon.
Shock for those who are young and cannot fathom how their belief, born of their age and development, that they will last forever somehow turns out to be wrong.
Gone. Just gone.
There are no words when a young person dies. It is not the time to philosophize about free will and evil, the choices we make, and the consequences we suffer. It is not the time to rage in debate about God and his creation. It is not the time to fall into nihilism.
It is a time to grieve.
It is a time to love.
A time to remember and be strong for those who despair.
--- In Meam Commemorationem MC (out of respect for the family, I do not list the full name.)