The black cat sat upon the old stone wall, looking impassively out into the graveyard. Tonight was the full moon, and the town church cast its long dark shadow over every grave. For a long while she remained unmoving, still as a statue. Only her eyes moved, flitting quickly from place to place, as though searching for someone she knew.
Suddenly she leapt, landing without a sound upon the soft brown earth, and began to run lightly between the headstones. She darted past George and Martha Fletcher, took a sharp right at the Hargrove family, and made a long graceful leap over M. Branson, before coming to a stop in front of a small and unremarkable grave in the far corner of the grounds.
She took a few minutes to clean her paws, taking her time, with no sense of hurry at all. When she was quite done, she circled twice around the headstone, rubbing up against it with a soft purr. She then walked to the very middle of the grave, curled herself into a ball, and with an air of contentment, promptly fell asleep.