Annabelle, an eight-year-old girl, stands in front of a hole.
A freshly dug grave, edged with clumps of upturned soil.
She wears bright white—refusing to mourn like the others.
Her brown hair, tousled by the wind, falls messily over her shoulders. Sweat beads on her pale skin, strands sticking to her cheeks.
Below, the coffin lowers slowly, groaning under the scrape of hemp ropes against wood.
A harsh, sinister sound, lingering in the air.
Yet—spring has come.
The sun warms the damp earth. Buds burst open on branches. Birds sing.
Everything is coming back to life.
Except her.
Frozen. Staring into nothingness. She cannot picture tomorrow.
Only three people attend the burial.
A priest, eyes down, muttering prayers. His dull voice merges with the rustling leaves.
— THUD! — the coffin hits the bottom.
A gravedigger, covered in dirt and sweat, collapses onto the ground, having just finished lowering the coffin into the hole he dug himself.
He breathes loudly, hunched over, exhausted.
Annabelle stands tall.
Still as a statue.
Her piercing blue eyes lock onto the headstone.
Her mother's name, Éléna Vance, hurriedly carved into the dull grey stone.
And beneath it—a hollow phrase. Empty. False.
A loving and devoted mother. May her soul rest in peace. Gone too soon, never forgotten.
Her frame trembles—strained by grief, weighed down by her father's winter death, and her mother's act.
Her muscles twitch, stiff and aching, crushed in an invisible vice.
"Finish your job."
Her voice cracks through the air.
The gravedigger looks up, frowning.
"Huh?" he croaks, nasal.
"Bury her."
He winces, sighs.
"Let her cool down a little, eh? I ain't a machine…"
He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, smearing more dirt onto his jaundiced skin.
"I'm paid to dig, not to shove people under like thieves in the night."
Annabelle doesn't flinch.
"She's dead. That's all that matters."
The man grumbles something under his breath, then groans as he gets up.
"You're a weird one, kid. Got a strange way of seeing death…"
He grabs his shovel, steps toward the grave.
Annabelle already isn't listening.
The gravedigger digs slowly, painfully. His body aches, bends under the weight. Still, he doesn't stop.
The young priest, hands clasped, approaches Annabelle. His eyes brim with pity.
"You shouldn't be so harsh, child. Look at him. He's exhausted. He worked hard. He deserves a rest. We can all show a little patience."
Annabelle stays still, arms crossed.
She has no patience left—only raw nerves.
"He doesn't need rest. He has a job to finish. And he knows it."
The priest pauses. Tries to stay composed. But frustration stirs.
"You don't understand. Death isn't just work. It touches us all. Even those who dig deserve some respect."
Annabelle finally looks at him.
Her gaze—sharp as broken glass.
"You think this changes anything? That I'll cry for her?"
She points at the stone.
Coldness in her voice.
"She's dead. That won't change. Respect? What's it for?"
"You want compassion?" she spits.
"Compassion's for the living.
I'm alone now. I have nothing left to give."
The priest, who also performed her father's funeral, tries once more.
"You're still young, Annabelle. Pain can change shape, but it doesn't vanish overnight. In time, you'll see—"
"In time?!"
She takes a step forward. Her voice cuts the silence like a blade.
"Time changes nothing.
My father's dead.
My mother ended her life.
And you—"
She points again at the grave.
"You want to talk to me about time? Let him finish his job."
The priest stiffens. His breath shortens.
Sadness blends with helplessness in his eyes.
He says nothing more.
Annabelle turns away.
Silence falls. Heavy. Final.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the gravedigger steps back. Gasping.
He slumps against a tree.
His shovel falls at his feet.
Maybe he shouldn't have been so sarcastic.
Annabelle walks toward the grave.
Small. Trembling, despite the warm day.
She places a shaking hand on the cheap gravestone—paid with what remained of her father's inheritance.
Dust flakes off, falling like ash.
She strokes the cold surface, then pulls her hand back, fingers dirty.
Eyes lost in the void.
The wind stirs the leaves.
Then—a dry crack.
Barely audible. But she hears it.
Her head turns slowly.
Whispers.
They float in the air.
Slide under her skin like ice.
She turns toward the path, at the edge of the woods. Eyes squinting.
The whispers draw closer.
Two tall figures move down the dirt road to the village.
Barely visible between the trees.