The prisoners froze in silent shock as they pried open the coffin lid, their lives suddenly split into “before” and “after.” A cold autumn wind howled through the wreaths of artificial flowers, making the mourning ribbons flutter like lost souls unable to find peace. This was the fifth funeral procession to pass through the main path of the old cemetery that daythe fifth coffin lowered into the damp, unwelcoming earth, the fifth soul officially condemned to oblivion.
Reginald and Alfred sat in a crumbling brick shelter, shielding themselves from the biting wind. Their eyes, accustomed to constant vigilance, lazily followed the ceremony. The ritual of grief was just background noise to them, part of the job. They stood, dusted off their threadbare trousers, and with practiced solemnity, approached the weeping mourners. Muttering vague condolences, they shook cold hands. No one paid attention to the two shabby men in worn jacketsgrief was the great equalizer, erasing social divides. In moments like these, any sympathy, even from strangers, felt like warmth in an ocean of loss. No one asked who they were. No one stopped them from paying respects. This universal numbness worked in their favor.
The last funeral of the day caught their attention. Everything about it screamed moneythe polished dark wood coffin with heavy bronze handles, lavish wreaths of fresh flowers with a sickly-sweet scent, and the cars waiting at the gates: not battered old Fords, but sleek imports with tinted windows. Reginald approached first. Peering into the coffin, his face twisted in a convincing imitation of grief. He crossed himself devoutly, whispered a rehearsed prayer, and stepped away, pretending to wipe away a tear. Alfred followed, his performance even more theatrical. Their eyes met for a split second, the faintest smirk tugging at their lips. Without a word, they retreated to their shelter. Tonights haul promised to be substantialthey only had to wait for nightfall.
From a chatty old woman in the funeral crew, theyd learned the deceased was a certain Margaret Eleanor. She lay in her coffin in a lavish velvet gown, her withered earlobes adorned with heavy gold earrings set with blood-red stoneslikely rubies. A solid gold cross should have rested on her lifeless chest, as tradition dictated.
When dusk swallowed the last light and the cemetery fell silent, broken only by the rustle of fallen leaves, they got to work. The sky, as if mocking them, had darkened with heavy clouds, and a cold, insistent rain began to fall. The wet earth clung to their shovels, turning every swing into agony. Their hands went numb, their backs ached, but the thought of their promised reward drove them forward. This job had to be finishedthey had no other choice.
Their meeting, fates cruel joke, had happened years ago in prison. Two broken men, two shattered lives. The world outside had been just as merciless as the walls theyd left behind. Reginald had grown up in an orphanage where dreaming was a luxury; survival was the only lesson. Alfred had been disowned by his own family when he was convicted, cast out like a leper. Freedom had offered them nothing but povertyno home, no work, no hope of redemption. Theyd ended up inside for sheer stupidity: Reginald for stealing petty cash from the factory where he worked as a loader, Alfred for a drunken brawl that left a man with a broken jaw.
No one wanted to hire ex-cons, middle-aged men who reeked of desperation and prison. So theyd taken the easiest, ugliest pathgrave robbing. They soothed their shame with a cynical mantra: *The dead dont need anything. Their treasures rot in the groundbetter we take them and at least eat well.*
Slipping between the graves like shadows, they reached the fresh mound. The shovels bit into the soft earth until the dull thud of wood against metal signaled success. They loosened the ropes and heaved the heavy lid asidethen recoiled in terror as an icy wave of fear washed away their cynicism.
“Reg… you see that? Shes… *breathing*?” Alfred rasped, his voice dropping to a whisper. In the dim glow of their torch, the lace on the old womans chest seemed to rise and fall.
“Quiet!” Reginald hissed, unable to tear his eyes from her deathly pale face.
Then it happeneda skeletal hand shot from the coffin, bony fingers clamping around Alfreds wrist with unnatural strength. Both men, hardened by prison and fearing neither God nor devil, screamed and stumbled back.
“Let go, witch! Damn you!” Reginald babbled, crossing himself with a shaking hand.
“Shut up! Shes *alive*you see? *Alive!*” Alfred roared, shock replacing his terror.
They didnt take the gold. Instead, they hauled the “corpse” from the gravelight as a skeleton wrapped in skinand collapsed onto the wet grass, choking on hysterical laughter and sobs. The old woman coughed, her body convulsing, and she cracked open clouded but unmistakably living eyes. Without a word, they lifted her and stumbled toward the caretakers shed at the edge of the cemetery. Thankfully, no one was there.
“We need an ambulance,” Reginald gasped, still struggling to believe what had happened.
Then the woman the world had already mourned found her voiceweak, hoarse, but firm.
“No… no doctors. Someone buried me alive. A very *specific* someone. He needs… to be taught a lesson.”
As awareness returned, she studied her rescuerstheir filthy clothes, their shovelsand asked, with more curiosity than disgust, “Why were you digging a grave in the middle of the night?”
The men exchanged guilty glances.
“Needed the money,” Alfred muttered, hanging his head. “Your jewelry… were grave robbers.”
Her face showed neither horror nor judgmentonly cold calculation.
“Then go back and cover my grave. Remove the evidence. Ill pay you for the job. And for saving meseparately.”
They returned to the gaping hole, shoveling with grim determination. When they finished, they trudged back to the shed, soaked and filthy, their souls drained.
Reginald asked, “Where do you live? Should we take you home?”
Margaret Eleanor shook her head. “No ones expecting me. My *loving* husbandtwenty years my junioris probably celebrating with his mistress right now.”
Alfred whistled. “Sorry, maam, but what did you expect?”
“He was a gold-digger. I was a fool who believed in love.” Her voice trembled, but there were no tearsonly icy rage. “He slipped something into my tea. Thought I wouldnt survive. But Ive always been strongproper diet, exercise. He paid off the doctors to declare me dead quickly. Death… its easy to mistake for a deep sleep.”
They took her to their dingy rented flat on the outskirts of Londontwo rooms reeking of poverty and despair. For days, it became a refuge for three people bound by a horrifying secret.
Meanwhile, in a glittering corporate office, a somber memorial for Margaret Eleanor was underway. Her employees respected herfeared her, but respected her. Shed built an empire from nothing. Her husband, Andrew, handsome and polished, played the grieving widower perfectly, already settling into his role as heir. Everyone knew what came nexthis sycophants would rise, her loyalists would be purged. The company was doomed.
Andrew, barely containing his triumph beneath a mask of sorrow, was mid-speech when the conference room doors burst open.
She walked in.
Silence fell. Andrew turned pale, his hand trembling around the microphone.
“Hello, darling,” Margaret said, her voice like shattering glass. “You dont look happy to see me.”
“M-Margaret… we buried you”
“I came back. Some lies need unraveling. But Ill let professionals handle that.”
The doors opened again. Police officers entered. A search of Andrews flat had uncovered vials of drugs and records of bribed doctors. His weak protests drowned in the stunned silence.
His lackeys were fired that same dayno severance. Their replacements? Reginald and Alfred. Men who, despite their pasts, had proven more decent than those in tailored suits.
Andrew got a long prison sentence. Margaret never spoke of him again.
She had a business to save and two unlikely but loyal assistants whod found in her not just an employer, but the mother theyd both 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.
