The freshly dug grave yawned open as the two men pried back the coffin lidthen froze, their lives cleaving into before and after.
A bitter autumn wind howled through the plastic wreaths, making the mourning ribbons flutter like restless spirits. It was the fifth funeral that day, the fifth coffin lowered into the damp, unfriendly earth. The fifth soul condemned to oblivion.
Jonathan and Thomas sat in a crumbling brick shelter, shielding themselves from the relentless wind. Their eyes, sharpened by years of suspicion, idly tracked the mourners. Grief was just background noise to them, part of the job. They stood, dusted off their worn trousers, and with practiced solemnity, approached the weeping crowd. Muttering vague condolences, they shook cold hands. No one cared about these two shabby men in threadbare jackets. Grief was the great equalisererasing class, making any shred of empathy feel like warmth in an ocean of loss. No one questioned their presence. No one stopped them from paying respects.
The last funeral of the day had caught their attention. Money screamed from every detailthe polished mahogany coffin with brass handles, the extravagant wreaths of fresh flowers, their sickly-sweet perfume thick in the air, the luxury cars idling at the gates. Not battered old Fords, but sleek imports with tinted windows.
Jonathan moved first. Peering into the coffin, his face contorted in a flawless imitation of grief. He crossed himself, lips moving in a rehearsed prayer, then stepped back, dabbing at an imaginary tear. Thomas waited, then repeated the act, sighing theatrically. Their eyes metjust for a secondand the faintest smirk flickered at the corners of their mouths. Without a word, they retreated to their brick shelter. Tonights haul would be more than decent. They just had to wait for nightfall.
The woman in the coffinEmily Catherine, as they’d learned from a chatty old woman in the funeral partywas dressed in a velvet gown, her withered earlobes weighed down by heavy gold studs with crimson stones. Rubies, probably. And beneath the lace at her throat, no doubt, lay a solid gold cross. Tradition demanded it.
When dusk swallowed the last light and the cemetery fell silent except for the rustle of dead leaves, they got to work. The sky, as if mocking them, churned with leaden clouds, releasing a cold, insistent rain. The wet earth clung to their shovels, each swing an agony. Their hands went numb, their backs screamedbut the promise of reward drove them on. They had no choice.
Theyd met years ago, inside. Two broken lives, two men discarded by the world outside the prison walls. Jonathan, a product of the care system, raised not to dream but to survive. Thomas, disowned by his family the moment he was convicted, treated like a leper. Outside, they found only destitutionno home, no work, no chance at redemption. Their crimes had been stupid: Jonathan had stolen a pittance from the factory where he loaded crates; Thomas had broken a mans jaw in a drunken brawl.
No one hired ex-cons, especially not men who reeked of desperation and prison sweat. So they took the easiest, ugliest pathgrave-robbing. They soothed their shame with a mantra: *The dead dont need it. Itll rot in the ground anyway. At least this way, we eat.*
Slipping between the headstones like shadows, confirming they were alone, they reached the fresh mound. Shovels bit into the soft earth. Finally, steel scraped wood with a hollow thud. They heaved the lid open
And recoiled in horror.
Jon You see that? Shes*breathing*? Thomas choked out, his voice a whisper of terror. In the weak torchlight, the lace at the womans chest seemed to tremble.
Shut it! Jonathan hissed, unable to tear his eyes from the corpses waxy face.
Thena skeletal hand shot from the coffin, ice-cold fingers clamping around Thomass wrist with unnatural strength. Both men, hardened by prison, screamed in unison, staggering back.
Let go, you *witch*! Jonathan spat, crossing himself with a shaking hand.
Shes *alive*, you idiot! Thomas roared, fear giving way to shock.
They didnt take the gold. Instead, they hauled the womanlight as a skeleton wrapped in skinfrom the grave, collapsing onto the wet grass in hysterical relief. The old woman coughed, her body shuddering, and cracked open milky but *living* eyes. Without a word, they carried her to the cemetery keepers hutempty, thankfullyand laid her on the cot, covering her with Thomass grimy coat.
An ambulancewe need to call one, Jonathan rasped, still disbelieving.
The womanEmily Catherine, already mourned by the worldfound her voice. Weak, rasping, but steel beneath:
No No doctors. My *husband* buried me alive. A very *particular* sort of man. And he needs correcting.
Her gaze sharpened as she took in her rescuerstheir dirt-caked clothes, their shovels.
And you why were you digging my grave at night? Not disgust in her tone, but curiosity.
The men exchanged glances. The truth was bitter, but lying now was pointless.
We were robbing you, Thomas admitted, head bowed. Your jewellery. Were ghouls.
No horror crossed her face. Only calculation.
Then go back and rebury that grave. Clean it up. And Ill pay youfor the work, and for saving me.
So they returned to the gaping hole. Digging was worse now, burying *evidence*, burying a nightmare. Finished, they stumbled back to the hut, soaked, filthy, hollow.
Where do you live? Jonathan asked. Should we take you home?
Emily shook her head.
They wont be expecting me. My *husband*twenty years my junioris likely celebrating with his mistress right now. Toasting his freedom.
Thomas whistled. No offence, love, but what did you expect?
He was a fortune-hunter. And I was a fool who believed in love. Her voice crackednot with tears, but fury. He slipped something into my tea. Thought I wouldnt survive. But Im strong. Always took care of myself. He paid off the coroner, the doctormade sure I was buried before anyone noticed.
They took her to their dingy flat on the citys edgetwo rooms stinking of poverty and despair. For days, it became a refuge for three people bound by a terrible secret.
Meanwhile, in a gleaming office, a memorial service for Emily Catherine was underway. Employees gatheredsome grieving, some wary. Shed been respected. Feared, but respected. The iron-willed woman whod built an empire from nothing. Her husband, Anthonypolished, handsome, already playing the grieving widowerstood before them, spinning visions of the future. Everyone knew the truth: hed been a parasite, a lazy sycophant whod charmed a lonely, brilliant woman. The old guardloyal to Emilywould be purged. The company was doomed.
Anthony, barely containing his triumph beneath a mask of sorrow, was mid-speech when the doors burst open.
And *she* walked in.
Silence.
Those facing the door went pale. Anthonys microphone slipped from his grip. He looked like hed seen a ghost.
Hello, darling, Emily said, her voice like shattering glass. You dont seem pleased to see me. And we *just* said goodbye
EmIwe he stammered, retreating.
I came back, she said, advancing as the crowd parted. Some lies need untangling. But I havent the time. Let the professionals handle it.
The doors opened again. Police officers entered. A search of Anthonys flat had turned up vials of drugs, records of bribes to a doctor. His protests died in the stunned silence.
His cronies were fired that same dayno severance. And in their place? Jonathan and Thomas. Men who, after crawling through hell, had proven more honest than any suited sycophant.
Anthony went to prison. Emily never spoke of him again.
She had a business to save. And two unlikely alliesmen 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*. And that was worth more than gold.
