At twelve years and not old enough for a title, the Boy kept his focus on himself, but he stopped his daily walk through the cemetery at a sight even he could not ignore.
"You shouldn’t do that.” He narrowed his eyes and glared with all the indignation called for in such a situation.
"Do what?" The target of his fury, a girl no older than he, swung her legs back and forth. She had brown eyes, but as for her other features, he had not taken the time to notice them. He found something else far more interesting.
"What you’re doing, sitting on that headstone there."
"And why shouldn’t I?" Her question seemed genuine, but the Boy could not fathom how she could not see the issue with her actions.
"Because. Someone died there."
The Brown-Eyed Girl brushed an orange leaf from the headstone. "No they didn’t. Not one of these people died here. They all died at home in their beds, or abroad in the world, or wherever it suited the world best to have them die."
The Boy paused in surprise at her response, but could not deny she was right. "Well, I’m sure that person doesn’t want you sitting on his headstone.”
"Oh, I’m quite certain she doesn’t mind."
The Boy jolted. Who did she think she was? He puffed up his chest. "And how can you be so certain?"
She ran her fingers through her hair and shook it loose. "Because,” she said, “this headstone is mine.”