The Burial Ground was not a place Silverspectre frequented often, despite his name. It was just...so different from what he had grown up with, in WinterClan. Loss was...loss. In the frigid mountains, there was rarely a body to recover when one found themselves in the frigid cold, and the rescue team had never really found the body of his mother, after all. The idea of death was still a sensitive subject, and his own loss couldn't be buried in a space like this.

Still, it didn't feel the same to him. His own ancestors weren't here, after all, left far behind in a land he no longer walked. The silent tom had assumed he'd be alone–not many seemed to frequent here other than that festival FallClan had–but he found himself looking eye to eye with another cat, as if he had just been caught like a deer in the headlights.

Tentatively, he tilted his head, raising a tail in greeting to the other cat. He hoped he wasn't disturbing the other cat, though he couldn't quite remember ever meeting this one before.

The somber eyes of the other tom was met with bright ones, who didn't seem to understand the severity of this place. Silverspectre truly didn't, after all; to him, death was nothing but a cycle. He had long buried his grief before he had arrived at FallClan's borders, after all. It seemed as if the other tom had made this his space from the way he greeted back.

Silverspectre wanted to speak, to ask why the other cat was here, of all places, but when he opened his mouth, words didn't seem to have any desire to leave, and he found himself closing his mouth once again. Instead, he gestured towards the space, a silent question of 'what are you doing here?'

The silver tom found that he didn’t exactly know how to answer the other cat. Rarely was there a reason or rhyme for what he did; the trees seemed to speak today. The oaks spoke of their catkins, their acorns yet to come. The beech tree whistled about the cats who had died in the forest, the crows who had feasted. The elder spoke of the warmer seasons, wistfully hoping that it’s flowers would bloom more brightly than yesteryear. The clouds had pointed to the west, a faint scent of storm upon its breeze.

He had simply followed their melodies to here with little to no purpose at all. For a clan, it seemed like every move was always calculated; one left camp to patrol or to hunt, he rarely echoed the same sentiments.

He gave the tom a sheepish look as if embarrassed to admit he had simply been lost. Silverspectre shook his head, admitting that there was no reason he was here in particular. His mouth opened, trying to explain how the trees spoke in his language, the language of life and beauty and an ancient whistled song...but no words came out and he found himself flushing once again at his inability to connect the way other cats would.