Buried
The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint rustle of trees swaying under the whisper of the wind. A grave was being dug on the edge of the town, far from where eyes could see, a place where secrets were meant to rot in the soil forever. Two men worked with their shovels, their breath fogging in the cold air. A third stood nearby, phone pressed to his ear.
"Yes, sir," the man said, voice low and respectful. "The work is almost done."
On the other end of the line, the voice of the Vice Mayor—Angelyn's father—flowed smooth and commanding.
"Good. Make sure there are no loose ends. Once the coffin is under, it must stay there. Not a whisper. Not a trace. Do you understand?"
"Yes, boss. Consider it done."
The call ended. The phone clicked shut. The silence returned, broken now only by the thud of shovels sinking into soil. But underneath the wood of the coffin, muffled sounds clawed against the night.
A faint banging. Weak. Desperate. The sound of knuckles striking wood until skin split. The sound of a man's voice, hoarse and fading, trapped in the coffin's suffocating dark.
Inside, the old man's chest heaved. His lungs burned with every shallow gulp of stale air. His nails dug into the coffin lid, scratching, clawing, fighting. His voice rasped, barely a whisper, words spoken to no one but the blackness pressing against him.
"So this is it…?" His voice cracked, wet with blood and sorrow. "This is what I get… for saving that boy…?"
His tears mixed with sweat, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He slammed his fists against the lid again, weaker this time, and laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and broken.
"God… you mock me. I thought maybe—just maybe—that one good deed would change my fate. That if I saved that child… if I gave him another chance… maybe you'd forgive me." His chest hitched with a sob. "But you… you're cruel. You give me this."
The darkness seemed to close in tighter, suffocating him. Memories flickered like dying lanterns behind his eyes—his wasted youth, his mistakes, his cruelty, his indifference to others.
Faces. So many faces. The people he wronged. The ones he ignored when they begged for help. The family he had failed to care for. His mother's disappointed eyes. His son's back, walking away from him.
A life not of virtue but of shame.
He coughed, choking on his own breath, and his voice trembled.
"I was never a good man… I was selfish… I hurt others just to survive… I let bitterness eat me alive. And now… now I rot here like the filth I've always been."
His chest rose and fell faster, panic surging, until his voice broke again, quieter, softer, almost childlike.
"But that boy… Naoki… he didn't deserve it. He had no one. No father. A mother who struggles to keep both of them alive. Bullied, beaten, cast aside by the world. I thought… maybe if I saved him, God… you'd at least give me peace. That I'd die knowing I did something right."
Tears streamed down his wrinkled face as he pressed his trembling palms flat against the coffin lid. His strength was leaving him, breath by breath. His vision blurred.
"God…" he whispered, voice cracking, "are you listening? Or have you closed your ears forever to people like me?"
Darkness swam in his eyes. His body was failing. And yet, with the last sparks of his fading life, he clung to one last prayer.
"If you won't save me… then save them. Please. I beg you."
His lips trembled, his whisper shaking with desperation.
"Make my grandson's life easier… let him live where I failed. Let him walk without chains of my sins. Let him breathe free of the curse of my blood."
A pause. His breathing slowed. His hands slipped from the coffin lid.
"And Naoki… that boy… he has known nothing but pain. Please, God, I beg you… let light embrace him. Let him find warmth where I could not. Let him taste the happiness I never knew. Don't let his soul rot like mine. Don't let him fall into the pit I'm sinking into. Please… if this is my last prayer before I return to dust… make it real. Don't turn away."
His voice fell silent, but his lips still moved, mouthing words that had no sound. His last breath was a prayer, half curse, half plea, swallowed by the coffin's suffocating dark.
Above, the two men put away their phones and picked up their shovels. Without hesitation, they began to pile earth over the coffin. Each heavy shovel of dirt landed with a dull, merciless thud.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound buried both body and prayer, muffling the last remnants of a man no one would ever know as a hero. No one would ever hear his confession. His last act of goodness would rot beneath the soil, hidden from the eyes of the world.
The grave was filled. The men tamped down the earth. And silence returned to the night.
The world moved on, uncaring.
Yet… elsewhere in town, a boy stood beneath a flickering streetlamp. His school uniform was wrinkled, his eyes weary, but in his hand he held a paper—crumpled from being folded and unfolded too many times.
It was a missing person poster.
The face of the old man smiled faintly from the paper, captured in better days.
The boy stapled it to a wooden post, his hand trembling. The word MISSING glared in bold letters above the photograph.
The night swallowed the boy's sigh. He looked up at the dark sky, lips trembling, and whispered, almost like a prayer of his own:
"Please… come back."
The wind carried his words away. The poster fluttered in the night. And somewhere beneath the earth, silence reigned.
A hero was gone. But his prayer lingered.
TO BE CONTINUED