At high noon, sunlight fell hard across rows of granite headstones, lined up one after another, perfect and straight.
A small, frail silhouette stood before the unthinkable: a freshly dug grave, open and raw.
The grave-digger's arms trembled under the weight of too many shovelfuls of damp earth. He dropped his spade with a dull thud and turned to the heavy wooden box beside him.
He seized it and forced himself to lower the coffin into the pit's depths. Sweat beaded on his brow, running down with gravity's pull. One droplet reached the tip of his nose, clinging there for a heartbeat.
A single second, rainbow-lit, before gravity took over and it fell into the broken ground below.
Annabelle had no means to afford a proper burial.
She'd settled for hiring just one man.
The plain pine box held her mother's body. No paint, no varnish, no decoration.
The scrape of hemp ropes dragging on soil echoed through the silence. A young priest lingered nearby, half-seated on the edge of another headstone. He watched the girl, her dress blindingly white, as if refusing to face death.
Strands of her long brown hair—wild in the wind—stuck to her face. They half-hid piercing blue eyes that caught the flawless sky. Her skin, nearly translucent, clung to her bones after months of neglect.
And yet, spring's scent filled the air. Buds on the trees, half-opened, revealed new green. Birdsong and the noises of hidden animals drifted across the graveyard.
THUD! The coffin hit the bottom of the pit with a muffled jolt.
The grave-digger, trembling, staggered toward a tree that offered the slimmest shade. Its branches, barely alive, didn't do much, but it was better than nothing.
He slumped to the grass at the trunk's base with a sigh of relief. The man was spent, drained by the task, hoping for a moment's rest.
— Aren't you done yet? Move.
Annabelle, relentless, spoke with a dry voice far too old for her eight years.
The grave-digger looked at her, annoyed. His dirty clothes were soaked. He wiped his freshly-shaved face with a grimy hand.
— I've been shoveling rocky, root-choked ground for hours. Filling it back in won't take long—just let me catch my breath. I'm tired.
The girl's fragile body trembled. The muscles in her neck and shoulders were wound tight, caught in a vice.
Her whole body twitched with nerves already worn thin.
Losing both parents in just a few months had left her hollowed out, raw.
— Shut up and bury her. I'm not asking for the moon. I already paid you to do your damn job.
The priest, unable to stand idly by, came over, trying for a soothing tone.
— Calm down, Annabelle. I know it's so hard to lose your parents so quickly. But I'm sure in time—
She cut him off, sharp:
— That time will heal the wounds? What do I care, right now?
The priest frowned, out of words but still trying.
— Funerals are meant to say goodbye, to respect the dead. Even the grave-digger deserves that, doesn't he?
— Haaa, I know, she said, resigned.
He gave her a look full of pity.
— And kid, maybe you could try being more patient, more respectful. Trust me, it'll take you far, snapped the grave-digger in passing.
— And you think I'm supposed to show patience for someone filthy as you? That's something you earn. You think you've earned it?
The man, stung, gripped his shovel and glared at her.
She suddenly remembered how much stronger he was, and didn't hesitate to hide behind the priest. She clung to his white robe—only her head visible.
He let out a long sigh. He knew his friend's sharp tongue, never knew how to change him. He had a rotten temper too.
— Relax, Henry. Just fill the grave so we can be done.
The grave-digger bit back a reply and nodded slowly.
— Only because you asked, not the kid.
He turned and sped up the work. He only wanted to get home for supper.
Unlike the digging—which had lasted since dawn with the sun now at its peak—the filling in was quick. In barely half an hour, the earth was flat again.
That final effort did him in; he slumped once more beneath the tree's shadow.
He eyed his friend with some resentment. The priest stood, immaculate, and even added a wry smile and a shrug.
He wasn't paid to dig.
Annabelle stepped out from behind the priest and dared to approach her mother's grave. She read the inscription with mixed feelings.
"A loving and devoted mother."
"May her soul rest in peace."
"Gone too soon, but never forgotten."
She placed her hand on the dull gray stone. Dust crumbled at her touch. A cold lump formed in her throat and lodged there, stubbornly stuck.
For everything that had happened, the love remained.
It remained, even if buried deep in her heart.
— Ahem… Well. I suppose now it's time for the funeral rites.
The priest took a thick little book from his pocket, paging through to find the right verse, squinting at tiny letters.
Ready to begin, he opened his mouth—and…
— Don't bother.
Annabelle, head lowered, had no wish to hear him preach again.
— But…
— It's fine. It's just the two of us anyway.
The priest remembered Albert's funeral, nearly the whole village present. And those who weren't had good reasons.
The empty scene before him now was a jarring contrast. He simply nodded.
A heavy silence settled between them. Henry had slipped away as soon as he could, leaving them alone at the graveside.
The silence stretched a long time—until far-off whispers broke it.
At the forest's edge, twigs cracked; footsteps drew near, slow and careful.
Abel Maria : Royal Road & Webnovel