The prisoners froze in silent shock as they pried open the coffin lid, their lives cleaving into a stark before and after. A bitter autumn wind howled through wreaths of artificial flowers, making the mourning ribbons flutter like restless spirits. It was the fifth funeral procession to pass through the old cemeterys main avenue that day. The fifth coffin lowered into the cold, unwelcoming earth. The fifth soul condemned to oblivion by the world.
George and Albert sat in a crumbling brick shelter, shielding themselves from the relentless wind. Their eyes, trained to constant vigilance, lazily followed the ceremony. The rituals of grief were mere background noise to them, part of the routine. They rose, dusted off their threadbare trousers, and donned the appropriate masks of sorrow before approaching the weeping mourners. Each received a mumbled condolence, a limp handshake. No one paid attention to the two shabby men in their worn jackets. Grief, the great equaliser, erased all social divides. In such moments, even the sympathy of strangers felt like warmth in a frozen sea of loss. No one questioned their presence, and no one forbade them from paying respects. The stunned haze of sorrow served them well.
The last procession of the day had caught their attention. Everything about it screamed wealththe polished dark wood coffin with heavy brass handles, lavish wreaths of fresh flowers exuding a sickly-sweet fragrance, the cars at the gates not battered old Fords but sleek imports with tinted windows. George went first. He peered into the coffin, his face twitching in a flawless imitation of grief. He crossed himself fervently, whispering a rehearsed prayer before stepping back, pretending to wipe away a tear. Albert waited, then repeated the act with even greater theatricality. Their eyes met briefly, the ghost of a smirk at the corners of their mouths. Without a word, they retreated to their shelter. Tonights haul promised to be substantial. All they had to do was wait for darkness.
The woman in the coffin, as theyd learned from a chatty old woman in the burial party, was one Margaret Eleanor. She lay in a velvet gown, her withered earlobes adorned with heavy gold earrings set with blood-red stonesrubies, most likely. A solid gold cross should have rested on her lifeless chest, as tradition dictated.
When dusk swallowed the last light and the cemetery fell silent save for the whisper of fallen 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 laborious effort. Their hands grew numb, their backs ached, but the thought of their reward drove them on. This grim task had to be finished. There was no other choice.
Their acquaintance, a cruel twist of fate, had begun years ago in prison. Two broken men, two shattered lives. The world outside had been no kinder than the walls theyd left behind. George had grown up in an orphanage, taught not to dream but to survive. Alberts family had disowned him the moment he was convicted, treating him like a leper. Freedom had offered them only destitutionno home, no work, no hope of redemption. Their crimes had been foolish: George for stealing a pittance from the factory where hed loaded crates, Albert for a drunken brawl that left a man with a broken jaw.
No employer wanted ex-convicts, ageing men who reeked of desperation and prison. So theyd taken the easiest, ugliest pathgrave-robbing. They soothed their shame with a cynical mantra: *The dead dont need their riches. Better we put them to use than let them rot.*
Slipping between the graves like shadows, they reached the fresh mound. The shovels bit into the soft earth until wood met metal with a dull thud. They heaved the heavy lid asideand recoiled in terror, icy dread washing over them.
George you see that? Shes breathing? Alberts voice cracked into a whisper. In the dim torchlight, the lace on the old womans chest seemed to stir.
Quiet! George hissed, unable to tear his eyes from her deathly pale face.
Then it happeneda skeletal hand shot from the coffin, bony fingers clamping around Alberts wrist with unnatural strength. Both men, hardened by prison and fearing neither God nor devil, staggered back with a shout.
Let go, witch! George stammered, crossing himself with a trembling hand.
Shut your mouth! Shes alivealive, you fool! Albert roared, shock overtaking fear.
They didnt take the gold. Instead, they hauled the corpse from the gravelight as a skeleton wrapped in skinand collapsed onto the wet grass, gasping between hysterical laughter and sobs. The old woman coughed, her body shuddering as she opened milky but living eyes. Wordlessly, they carried her to the caretakers hut at the edge of the cemetery.
We need an ambulance, George choked out, still disbelieving.
Then the woman the world had mourned found her voiceweak, rasping, but firm.
No. No doctors. I was buried alive by someone. A very *particular* someone. He needs to be taught a lesson.
Her gaze sharpened as she took in her rescuerstheir grime, their shovels.
And you why were you digging my grave at night?
The men exchanged guilty glances. There was no point lying now.
We meant to rob you, maam, Albert muttered, hanging his head.
Her face showed no horror, only cold calculation.
Then go back and fill in that grave. Clean up the mess. Ill pay you for your workand for saving me.
They returned to the gaping hole, the task now heavier with dread. They buried the evidence, the terrible secret.
Back in the hut, soaked and filthy, she asked where they lived.
Should we take you home? George ventured.
Margaret Eleanor shook her head.
I wont be welcome there. My husbandtwenty years my junioris likely celebrating with his mistress.
Albert whistled.
Begging your pardon, maam, but what did you expect?
A gigolo, she said, her voice trembling not with tears but fury. He slipped something into my tea. Thought I wouldnt survive. But Ive always been strongate well, exercised. Death is easily mistaken for deep sleep, especially when the doctors are bribed.
The ex-convicts took her to their dingy flat on the citys outskirts. For days, those two rooms, steeped in poverty, became a refuge for three souls bound by a grim secret.
Meanwhile, in the sleek offices of a thriving company, Margarets employees gathered for a memorial. Her husband, Andrew, handsome and polished, played the grieving widower flawlessly. He spoke of future plans, barely concealing his triumphuntil the door swung open.
She walked in.
Silence fell. Andrew turned, his face draining of colour.
Hello, darling, Margaret said, her voice like ice. You dont look pleased to see me.
He stumbled back, babbling excuses.
Ive returned, she continued, advancing as the crowd parted. Some business remains unfinished. But I havent the timelet the professionals handle it.
The police entered. A search of Andrews flat had turned up vials of drugs and proof of bribes to the doctor. His protests died in the stunned silence.
His sycophants were dismissed without severance. In their place, Margaret hired George and Albertmen who, despite their past, had proven more decent than those in tailored suits.
Andrew was imprisoned. Margaret never spoke of him again. She had a business to salvage and two unlikely but loyal aides who, in her, found not just an employer but the mother theyd lost long ago. Theyd found each other at the edge of a grave and given one another a chancenot just to survive, but to live. And that was worth more than gold.
