Myrtle's death
There was a boy that followed Myrtle wherever she went, but that was a long time ago now. She doesn't remember him well, because there are so many things that distract a young girl in a world filled by marvels, and the boy was hard to spot, lost as he was among all the colours of the world. She remembers that he was nice, however, and that she was a little afraid of him. Why, she can't remember anymore.
Even if she doesn't remember him well, she remembers that he was always there for her, and now when she knows so much better then most other people what being lonely truly means, she misses him and his silent, unobtrusive company. Myrtle doesn't have much colour herself anymore. Isn't that unfair? That she who had so many colours once upon a time should lose them so suddenly, and that he never had any at all? He could have got some of hers, if he had wanted, and then maybe he would have stayed with her.
But he didn't stay. Myrtle remembers that sad day when she died, and he stepped forward. He had wanted her to follow him to the land without any colours, to the land of the dead. But she had been scared and angry and she had refused. She had wanted to make those who she blamed for her death regret their deeds, and she had wanted to see more of the world of colours than her brief life had permitted. He had been persistent, but so had she, and in the end, with a last, sad glance at her, he had turned from her and walked away.
Myrtle often thinks of that boy, wonders where he is now and what he is doing without her. She wonders if he thinks about her. Sometimes she wishes that she had followed him.