They pause in covering the blanket with dirt. Their hands are filthy with it, brown grains stuck to their fingers by the blood, but it looks less disgusting. Dirt gloves, not blood gloves.

Frisk's staring at him, blank, rewinding what they'd just been saying. "About the...coffin--?

...He was really upset, wasn't he?

He hasn't...been here. He hasn't seen this before.

A plethora of expressions fly across their face, too fast for even them to tell what they are, but it settles on a wide-eyed grimace they immediately smother.

But somebody must've said so. Somebody must've told him, it's important. And he'd been a ghost from the castle magic.

But then why'd he breathe like that? He didn't know this kid's name, so they probably weren't friends--just a kid. Just a dead kid, in front of a hero, from a place where people don't die a lot, and where there's no way to be used to it.

"This...this happened before, once," Frisk starts carefully. "A couple kids died--they were okay. Later. A few days later. And it'll happen again. There's...nobody told you about that?" they ask in a too-calm voice, waving at the graves nearby, fresh and not.