**Diary Entry**
Digging into the fresh grave and lifting the coffin lid, the two men froze in stunned silence. What lay before them would split their lives into “before” and “after.”
A cold autumn wind howled through wreaths of artificial flowers, making the mourning ribbons flutter like restless souls. It was the fifth funeral procession that day winding down the main path of the old cemetery. The fifth coffin lowered into the damp, unwelcoming earth. The fifth soul officially consigned to oblivion.
Geoffrey and Simon sat in a half-ruined brick shelter, shielding themselves from the biting wind. Their eyes, dulled by constant wariness, lazily tracked the mourners. The ritual of grief was just background noise to thempart of the routine. They stood, dusted off their threadbare trousers, and put on appropriately sombre expressions before drifting toward the weeping crowd. They approached each mourner, muttering vague condolences and shaking cold hands. No one paid them any mindtwo shabby men in worn jackets. Grief is a great leveller, erasing social divides. In moments like these, any gesture of sympathy, even from strangers, feels like warmth in a frozen sea. No one asked who they were, and no one stopped them from paying respects. The numbness of sorrow worked in their favour.
The last funeral of the day caught their attention. Everything about it screamed wealththe polished dark oak coffin with heavy brass handles, lavish wreaths of real flowers filling the air with sweetness, and the cars at the gate: not banged-up Fords, but luxury imports with tinted windows. Geoffrey went first. Peering into the coffin, his face twisted into a perfect imitation of grief. He crossed himself, whispered a rehearsed prayer, and stepped back, pretending to wipe away a tear. Simon waited, then repeated the act with even more theatrical sighs. Their eyes met briefly, mouths twitching with the ghost of a smirk. Without a word, they retreated to their shelter. Tonights haul promised to be substantial. They only had to wait for darkness.
Theyd learned from a chatty old woman in the burial crew that the deceased was a Margaret Elizabeth, laid to rest in a lavish velvet dress, gold earrings with deep red stoneslikely rubiesgleaming against her pallid skin. There shouldve been a heavy gold cross on her chest too; people always buried their loved ones properly.
When dusk swallowed the last light and the cemetery fell silent, broken only by the rustle of dead leaves, they set to work. The sky, as if mocking them, had clouded over, and a cold, insistent rain began to fall. The wet earth clung to their shovels, each swing a struggle. Their hands went numb, their backs ached, but the thought of the reward drove them forward. They had no choice.
Theyd met years ago in prisontwo broken lives thrown together. The outside world proved just as merciless. Geoffrey had grown up in care, taught to survive, not dream. Simons family disowned him the moment he was convicted, treating him like a leper. Freedom offered them nothing: no home, no work, no chance at redemption. Theyd landed inside for stupid mistakesGeoffrey for stealing a petty sum from a factory till, Simon for a drunken brawl where his opponent lost a jaw.
No one hires ex-cons, especially men who reek of desperation and prison. So they took the easiest, ugliest pathgrave-robbing. They soothed themselves with a bitter mantra: *The dead dont need it. Their treasures rot in the ground, but well put them to use.* The thought dulled the shame.
Slipping between graves like shadows, they reached the fresh mound. Their shovels bit into the soft earth until wood met metal with a hollow thud. They hauled the coffin openand recoiled in horror, icy fear washing over them.
“Geoff You see that? Shes breathing?” Simon rasped, his voice breaking into a whisper.
“Quiet!” Geoffrey hissed, unable to look away.
Then it happeneda skeletal hand shot from the coffin, gripping Simons wrist with unnatural strength. Both men, whod feared neither God nor devil, stumbled back with a yell.
“Let go, you witch!” Geoffrey babbled, crossing himself with a shaking hand.
“Shut up! Shes alive!” Simon roared, shock replacing terror.
They didnt take the gold. Instead, they hauled the “corpse” outa frail, skeletal woman, coughing weakly. Staggering through the rain, they carried her to the cemeterys old watchmans hut. No one was therejust as well. They laid her on the cot, covering her with Simons filthy coat.
“An ambulancewe need to call one,” Geoffrey choked out.
Then the womanwho the world had already mournedspoke. Weak, hoarse, but firm: “No No doctors. My husband buried me alive. A very *particular* man. He needs to be taught a lesson.”
Her gaze sharpened, taking in their muddy clothes and shovels. “…Why were you digging my grave?”
The truth was bitter, but there was no point lying. “We wanted the jewellery,” Simon admitted, head bowed. “Were grave robbers.”
No horror crossed her facejust cold calculation. “Then go back and fill the grave. Cover your tracks. Ill pay you for the work. And for saving meseparately.”
They returned to the gaping hole. Digging was harder now, burying evidence, burying a nightmare. By the time they stumbled back to the hut, they were soaked, filthy, and hollow.
“Where dyou live?” Geoffrey asked. “Well take you home.”
Margaret Elizabeth shook her head. “Hell be expecting me. My *young* husbandtwenty years my junioris probably celebrating with his mistress.”
Simon whistled. “Sorry, love, but what did you expect?”
“A gold-digger,” she said, voice trembling but dry-eyed. “I was a fool. He slipped something into my tea, paid off the coroner. Deaths easy to fake when youve got money.”
They took her to their grim flat on the citys edgetwo rooms stinking of poverty. For days, it housed three people bound by a dark secret.
Meanwhile, in a sleek office, mourners gathered for Margarets memorial. Her husband, Andrew, handsome and smug, played the grieving widower. Everyone knew hed been leeching off her empire. Changes were comingher loyal staff would be replaced by his sycophants. The company was doomed.
Then the doors burst open.
She walked in.
Silence. Andrew paled, his microphone clattering to the floor.
“You dont look happy to see me,” Margaret said, voice like shattered glass. “I came back. Some lies need untanglingbut Ill leave that to the professionals.”
Police filed in behind her. Andrews flat had yielded vials of drugs and bribed doctors notes. His whimpers drowned in the stunned silence.
His lackeys were sacked that same hour. Their replacements? Geoffrey and Simon. Men whod crawled through filth but proved far nobler than those in tailored suits.
Andrew went down for a long time. Margaret never spoke of him again. She had a business to salvage and two unlikely, loyal men whod found in her the mother theyd lost long ago. Theyd met at the edge of a grave and given each other a chancenot just to survive, but to live. That was worth more than gold.
**Lesson learned:** Redemption comes in strange forms. Sometimes, it takes clawing your way out of a grave to see the light.
