Clove stared out of the window, her breath becoming fog that clung to the glass. She watched him, sitting by the tree where they first met, waiting for the mother that would never come. Everyone knew that his mother had died two days ago. It was the talk of the school. She watched his blue eyes flicker up to the bus window she was looking out. He couldn't see her though. The bus windows were tinted as dark as her eyes. He was thinking about her though. Her eyes, her dark eyes, perfectly contrasting with her dark hair.
'Clove! What are you looking at?' Her friend Alana interrupted her thoughts. Clove ignored the question and slowly turned to Alana, her eyes still lingering on the patch of foggy breath left on the window.
Cato sat at the tree, knowing in his head that his mother would never come in her car to pick him up. But he sat there for an hour anyway, waiting for the familiar wheels to roll past the road. But, of course, she never came. As it was getting dark, he began to walk the stretch home. On his way, he passed the old theatre. He used to go there with his mother to watch the musicals. His mother loved musicals. He didn't want to go home to the house, so silent without the chatter of his mother's laugh and the smell of her cooking bread in the oven.
He ran over to the theatre door. Reaching down, he grabbed a stick and slowly picked the lock. Clove had taught him how to do this, when they were nine years old. He entered the room, and walked through the foyer to the auditorium. The plush black seats lined up in rows towards the stage. They would be a good place to spend the night. As he lay down, shivering even in his coat, he could remember those nights with his mother, sitting in those seats, watching the stage come alive. As reality began to mingle with dreams, he thought of Clove. The girl with the dark eyes, whom he saved from his brother at the tender age of six.
Now; at twelve years old, he realised what a beautiful girl she was. And how much he loved her.
