Annabelle, an eight-year-old girl, stands before a hole. A freshly dug grave, bordered by clumps of overturned earth. She is dressed in white, stubbornly refusing to wear mourning clothes like the others. Her brown hair, tousled by the wind, falls in unruly strands over her shoulders. Below, the coffin slowly descends, accompanied by the harsh creaking of hemp ropes scraping against the wood. A rough, sinister sound that lingers in the air.
Yet spring is here. The sun warms the damp soil, buds burst open on the branches, and birds sing. Everything is coming back to life. Except her. Frozen, she stares into the void, unable to imagine the future.
Only three people attend the funeral. The priest mutters prayers, his eyes lowered, his monotone voice blending with the rustling of the leaves. A little further away, the gravedigger, covered in dirt and sweat, has collapsed to the ground after lowering the coffin into the hole he dug. He breathes heavily, his back hunched, disregarding any sense of decorum.
Annabelle, however, remains standing, as rigid as a statue. Her piercing blue eyes are locked on the gravestone. Her mother's name, Éléna Vance, hastily carved into the dull stone. Below it, an empty, meaningless phrase. A lie etched in stone.
"A loving and devoted mother. May her soul rest in peace. Taken too soon, but never forgotten."
Her frail figure, burdened by the grief of losing her father in the winter and the act of her mother, trembles with nervous tics. Her muscles are tight, aching, trapped in an invisible vice. A phantom pain, ever-present.
— "Finish your job."
Her voice cracks through the air, sharp and sudden.
The gravedigger looks at her, furrowing his brow.
— "Huh?" he says in a nasal tone.
— "Bury her!"
The man grimaces and exhales heavily.
— "Let her cool down a bit, give her some rest, huh? I'm not a machine..."
He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing more dirt across his already stained skin.
— "I'm paid to dig, not to toss people in the ground like thieves."
Annabelle doesn't look away.
— "Like you said. She's dead. It doesn't change a thing."
The gravedigger shakes his head, muttering something unintelligible before pushing himself up with a groan.
— "Well. You're strange. Got a funny way of dealing with death..."
He grabs his shovel and steps closer to the grave.
Annabelle no longer listens.
The gravedigger continues, shovelling with visible difficulty. His body, exhausted and sore, bends under the strain, yet he does not stop, ignoring the pain.
The young priest, hands clasped, approaches Annabelle, his eyes filled with concern.
— "My child, you mustn't be so harsh. Look at this man, he's exhausted. He's worked hard; he deserves a moment of rest. We can all show a little patience."
Annabelle stands unmoving, arms crossed. She has no patience left; her nerves are frayed.
— "He doesn't need rest. He has a job to finish. And he knows it."
The priest hesitates. He tries to maintain his composure, but frustration flickers beneath the surface.
— "You don't understand, my child. Death isn't just a matter of labour. It touches us all, and even those who dig the earth deserve respect."
Annabelle finally looks at him, her gaze sharp like shattered glass.
— "You think it changes anything? That I'm going to cry? My mother is dead, and none of this will bring her back. Respect? What's the point?"
She points to the gravestone, her voice devoid of warmth.
— "You want compassion? Compassion is for the living. I'm alone now, so I have nothing left to give."
The priest, who had also presided over her father's funeral, tries once more to reach her.
— "You are young, Annabelle. Pain changes shape, but it doesn't vanish. In time, you'll see that—"
Annabelle interrupts him, her voice sharp and bitter.
— "In time?!"
She steps closer, her stare cutting through him like a blade.
— "Time never changed anything. My father died. My mother killed herself. And now you're here, preaching to me about 'time'? Let him finish his job."
The priest, trembling slightly, remains silent. Sadness and frustration mix in his eyes. He knows there is nothing more to say.
Without another word, Annabelle turns her gaze back to the grave. The silence thickens, heavy and impenetrable.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the gravedigger steps back, panting, and collapses against a tree, his shovel discarded at his feet. Perhaps he regrets his earlier sarcasm.
Annabelle, however, moves forward. Fragile and shivering despite the warmth of the day. She rests a trembling hand on the rough surface of the gravestone, purchased with what remained of her father's inheritance.
Fine particles of dust flake from the stone, falling like a light rain — like ashes. She shudders again, her fingers trailing along the cold, lifeless rock. Then, abruptly, she withdraws her hand, dirt clinging to her pale fingers.
She stares at the grave, though she no longer truly sees it. The weight of the moment, however insignificant, presses heavily on her chest.
The wind stirs the leaves around Annabelle, but another sound catches her attention. A sharp crack, almost imperceptible, reaches her ears. She slowly turns her head.
Whispers. They float in the air. They brush against her skin like a cold breeze.
Her gaze shifts to the path, eyes narrowing. The air is thick, heavy with the damp scent of earth and fresh soil. The whispers grow louder, and a shiver runs through her.
Two tall silhouettes move along the path leading to the village, visible between the trees. She barely glimpses them. The sound of footsteps becomes clearer. Another crack, closer this time.