Barely eight years old, Annabelle stood before the unthinkable. There, before a freshly dug grave, she stood still, paralyzed—like prey to the lucidity of her loss. The tearing in her soul. The tearing of having lost her last parent.
The gravedigger, alone, struggled to lower a coffin into the depths of the earth. Into a hole he had carved himself.
Beads of sweat bloomed across his forehead and slid downward. One droplet reached the tip of his nose and clung there, suspended for a second.
A second where it caught the rainbow light of the world around it. Then, pulled by gravity, it surrendered and dropped into the wounded soil.
Annabelle couldn't afford a proper burial.
But even if she could, she wouldn't have done more.
She had hired a single man.
The cheap pine coffin held her mother's body. No paint, no varnish, no ornament. She had given her the bare minimum.
The grinding of hemp ropes dragged against the dirt, echoing through the silence. A young priest stood nearby—half-perched on another gravestone. He watched the girl in her brilliant white dress.
Wind-blown strands of her long brown hair clung to her face. They partly veiled her piercing blue eyes, which mirrored the cloudless sky. Her skin, nearly translucent, clung to her bones after months of neglect.
And yet, despite everything she'd endured, spring filled the air with its floral scent. Buds on the trees cracked open, showing pale green shoots. Birds sang, and far-off creatures rustled faintly through the graveyard.
All this life, rising from a patch of ground scattered with a hundred stones, each carved for forgotten generations.
THUD.The coffin struck the bottom of the grave.
The gravedigger trembled slightly, panting. Exhausted, he staggered toward a nearby tree for shade. Its early-spring branches barely offered cover, but it was better than nothing.
He let himself collapse onto the grass at the base of the trunk with a sigh. His energy was spent. He hoped for a moment's rest.
— You're not done. Move.
Annabelle's voice was dry, sharp, uncompromising. Despite her age.
The man looked up, annoyed. His filthy clothes were soaked through.
— Let the dead cool down, will you? I've been digging through stone and roots for hours. Filling it back in won't take long. Just let me breathe. I'm tired.
The girl's fragile form trembled. Her neck and shoulders locked, like caught in a vice.
Her body twitched with nervous tension. Her nerves had been gone for a long time.
Losing both parents in the space of months had carved a hole in her. A void that left her raw.
— Shut up and bury her. I'm not asking for the moon. I paid you to do your job.
The priest, no longer able to just stand there, rose and stepped forward. He spoke gently, trying to soothe her. But the attempt fell flat.
— Easy, Annabelle. I know it's hard losing your parents like this. But I'm sure, with time—
She cut him off, blade-sharp:
— That time heals all wounds. What do I care about time—now?
The priest frowned, unsure how to answer but still trying to reason with her.
— Funerals are for saying goodbye with dignity. Even the gravedigger deserves that, doesn't he?
— Really? You think he's being polite to my mother? she snapped, pointing at the yellow-skinned man wiping sweat across his face, streaking himself with dirt.
This time, the priest stayed quiet. He looked at his friend with pity.
— And you, kid—you could have some patience. A little respect. That'll get you far, the gravedigger muttered, thinking he'd said the last word.
— You think that changes anything? You think I'll cry now? My mother is dead. Nothing brings her back. Patience? Respect? What are those worth?
She pointed to the tombstone.
— You really think I should feel patience or respect for someone like you? That's something you earn. You think you've earned it?
The man scowled and gripped the handle of his shovel.
Realizing the shift, Annabelle darted behind the priest without hesitation. She clung to his long white robe, white like her's, only her head peeking out.
The priest sighed. He knew his friend's temper. He also knew it never changed.
— Relax, Henry. Just cover it up so we can be done.
Henry bit back his answer, then nodded.
— Only because youasked. Don't get any ideas, kid.
He turned back and picked up his pace. One thing on his mind: lunch.
Unlike the digging, which had dragged on since dawn, refilling the grave was quick. In half an hour, the earth was flat again.
Henry's arms burned. He was done.
He slumped back beneath the tree.
He glanced at the priest with resentment. Still clean. Still smiling faintly. Still untouched by the dirt.
Hehadn't been the one paid for digging.
Annabelle stepped out from behind him and walked to the grave. She read the inscription carved into the stone.
An inscription that, to her, felt like a lie.
A loving and devoted mother.
May her soul rest in peace.
Gone too soon, but never forgotten.
She raised her hand and touched the dull grey surface. Dust broke away under her fingers. A cold knot formed in her throat. It lodged there, stuck sideways.
And yet, somehow… the love remained.
It was there, buried deep in her heart.
— Ahem… well then, I'll begin the funeral rites.
The priest pulled a small, thick book from his pocket. He flipped through it slowly, squinting at the tiny print.
He opened his mouth to speak—
— Don't bother.
Annabelle didn't raise her head. She had no desire to hear prayers for her mother.
He hesitated.
— But for your father…
— My father was a known man. A good and decent man. For my mother… there's no one but me.
The priest remembered Albert's funeral. The whole village had come. Those who hadn't had good reasons.
This time, the difference was crushing.
He simply nodded.
A heavy silence fell between them.
Henry had vanished—just as quickly as he'd appeared.
The silence stretched long.
Until distant murmurs broke it.
At the forest's edge, dry twigs cracked underfoot. Footsteps approached.
Two silhouettes emerged at the far side of the clearing, still blurred by the light of day.
This story is written by Abel Maria
and is officially published only on Royal Road.
Don't hesitate to follow the road.