“Let’s cut through there, it’ll be faster!”

“I don’t know…”

Lane’s eyes traced a line from Sammy’s pointing hand into the cemetery. Lane had read too many stories that started with that line of dialogue to immediately agree. Sammy playfully knuckled Lane’s shoulder. 

“What, afraid of ghosts?”

Lane looked away.

“Don’t worry, ghosts can’t hurt you,” Sammy said. “Just make sure not to make eye contact if you see one.”

“W-what?”

“Yeah, they can give you bad nightmares for like a week.”

Sammy led them by the hand through the cemetery path. Rows upon rows of gravestones dotted the grassy enclosure, occasionally adorned with a wreath or bunch of flowers. The air around them felt heavy and humid. Lane tried not to look, not wanting to spot any ghosts, and not wanting to read any names. Lane knew reading a name would send their mind speculating about what kind of person lay buried underneath, the life they led, or how they died. Lane didn’t need that line of thought in their life at that moment.

Try as they might, Lane couldn’t help their eyes from landing on a certain grave, placed unassumingly among the rest. They had to stop to check if they’d read it right.

“Sammy, who's buried here?”

Sammy looked at the grave.

“It’s written right there.”

Lane looked again.

“I know, but it has to be some kind of metaphor, right?”

Sammy thought for a moment.

“What’s a metaphor?”

“It’s… like a simile, but, um…”

“Listen, we can look at a dictionary while we’re at school, but we’re going to be late if we don’t hurry up.”

The pair picked up the pace, and barely made it to school on time. After classes ended, Lane told Sammy to go on ahead instead of walking home together.

* * *

“Oh, are you buying for a boyfriend?” asked the florist.

Lane shook their head no.

“Girlfriend?”

“No, actually…”

* * *

The sun had just begun to consider making the daily trip under the horizon. Lane timidly made their way to the cemetery once again, carrying the small bundle of roses that they could afford with their allowance. Taking a deep, shaky breath, they once again stepped through the open gate. The cemetery’s many inhabitants greeted the young person with the quiet indifference expected of the dead. 

Lane stopped at the same gravestone they had noticed earlier, wondering if they should say something. They reread the inscription, struggling to piece their thoughts together.

“God 

Beloved Creator and Father.

1200 BCE - 1992 CE”

“I, um…” Lane tried. “I’m sorry.”

Before Lane could question their choice of words, they gently laid the bouquet at the grave and hurried off, not wanting to see any ghosts on the way out.