The Procession
The first thing Thomas noticed about Hollow's End was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that clung to the air like fog, heavy and unnatural. Even the crows seemed to avoid the crooked rooftops as he walked the streets.
He hadn meant to stop here. His carriage had broken an axle on the forest road, and the innkeeper back in Westford had told him Hollow's End was the nearest place to rest. But as he stepped into the village square, he realized he had stumbled into something else entirely.
They were gathering.
Dozens of villagers dressed in black, faces pale, eyes empty. They moved in solemn formation, each carrying a single white candle that flickered in the wind. No one spoke. No one wept.
At the center of the procession was a coffin - dark oak, unmarked, carried by six men with bowed heads.
Thomas frowned. He had seen funerals before, but never one so cold. No priest, no scripture, no wailing relatives. Just silence.
He leaned toward an old woman at the edge of the crowd. "Who… who died?" he whispered.
She didn't look at him. Her lips barely moved.
"Don't ask."
Before he could press further, the procession began to move. Slowly, steadily, toward the churchyard at the edge of town. Drawn by equal parts curiosity and dread, Thomas followed.
The graveyard lay beyond a rusted iron gate. Row upon row of fresh mounds stretched across the land - too many for a village this size. Some had flowers, others were bare, but all were recent.
The coffin was lowered into a waiting hole. The villagers stood in silence as dirt thudded onto the lid. No names were spoken. No prayers. Only the sound of shovels.
When it was done, the crowd turned and began to leave, their candles flickering in the night breeze. One by one, they melted back into the crooked streets, leaving the graveyard empty.
All except the old woman. She remained by the fresh mound, her candle trembling in her wrinkled hand.
Thomas approached cautiously. "Please," he said softly. "I need to know. Who was it?"
At last, she turned her eyes on him. They were milky with age, but sharp with warning.
"Not who," she said. Her voice cracked like dry wood.
Her gaze dropped to the fresh earth.
"What."
Then she blew out her candle, leaving Thomas in darkness.