Whispers of the Past
Thomas couldn't sleep.
The inn was warm enough, with a fire crackling low in the dark, he was restless. He replayed the old woman's words again and again.
Not who. What.
He sat up on the narrow bed and listened. For a moment, he thought it was only the wind, Then he heard it again shovels. The scrape of iron on earth, faint but steady.
Curiosity hit at him harder than fear. He pulled on his jacket grabbed a flashlight, and slipped out into the night.
The village was deserted. No lamps lit the streets. No dogs barked. Only the sound of shovels guided him, leading him toward the graveyard at the edge of town.
As he approached, he saw them: lanterns swaying in the dark, moving among the rows of graves. Dozens of villagers, their faces pale in the dim light, digging into the fresh grave they had buried hours ago.
Thomas bent behind the iron gate, his breath shaking in the cold night. He tried to understand what he was seeing.
The coffins were being lifted back out.
He blinked, convinced his eyes deceived him. The villagers were digging what they had buried dragging the heavy boxes from the ground and forcing them open. But there were no bodies. Instead, Thomas saw objects: a rusted pocket watch, a cracked doll, a rusty wedding ring. Each coffin held something different, as though each was a container for memory, not flesh.
One of the men pulled a book from a coffin and handed it to the old woman he had seen earlier. She opened it, her lips moving silently over the words. Then she closed it, placed it back in the box, and nodded. The coffin was lowered again, reburied in silence.
Thomas's light flickered, and his hand shook. He backed away from the gate, hitting the gate by mistake too The sound snapped through the graveyard like a gunshot.
Every shovel stopped. Every head turned.
Dozens of pale eyes stared at him from the dark.
The old woman's voice echoed across the graveyard, soft but sharp as a knife:
"He has seen too much."