At her son’s funeral, the mother suddenly seized an axe and struck the coffin lid again and again: when it split open, everyone saw something horrifying.
– I’m not going to the funeral, that isn’t my son.
– Mom, what are you saying? This is your son, my husband. How can you refuse to attend?
– You don’t understand. My son isn’t in that coffin. They’re lying, hiding something.
– But Mom, you saw the papers. They explained his face was destr0yed in the cra:sh, yet the DNA confirmed it was him.
– That isn’t my son, I can feel it.
– You’re just grieving, refusing to accept he’s truly gone.
– My son is alive. Stop talking about him as if he’s already de:ad.
No matter what they said, the mother stayed firm. Only hours later did she reluctantly agree to come. She refused black clothing, instead choosing a bright blue coat. In her hands she carried a heavy black bag, never letting it go for even a moment. Her daughter-in-law remained silent—what mattered was that she finally agreed to attend.
The day was bleak, heavy clouds hung low over the cemetery. When the service began and the coffin was about to be sealed, the mother suddenly stepped forward. Her face was pale. She set the bag down, pulled out an axe, and before anyone could stop her, she swung hard and struck the coffin lid.
The wood cracked, fragments flew. One blow, then another, until the coffin split nearly in half.
A chilling silence followed. The mourners froze; some gasped and covered their mouths, others stepped back. The priest lowered his gaze, as though wishing to disappear. The crowd stood paralyzed until a horrified voice rang out:
— It’s… empty!
And then the terrible truth appeared.
Chaos broke out. Men rushed toward the gravediggers, others called the police. The daughter-in-law, pale as chalk, dropped her purse. The mother, breathless, stood above the broken coffin, her fists gripping the axe until her knuckles turned white.
“I told you,” she said, her voice low but steady, “my son isn’t here.”
Just then, a thin man in the cemetery guard’s uniform stepped from the crowd. He hesitated, then forced himself to speak:
— The body… was taken. At night. Two people arrived… showed papers… said it had to be moved to another city’s morgue for a new examination. I… I didn’t know this would happen…
His words swept over the mourners like a cold wind. Where had they taken the body? Who were those people?
The police arrived quickly, questioning everyone. But worse news soon followed: there was no morgue record of any transfer at all.
Instead of the son’s name, the log carried a chilling note: “disposal – clerical error.” It meant someone had deliberately erased every trace of him after de:ath… or had staged his de:ath entirely.
The mother sank onto a bench, clutching a splinter of the coffin lid. Her eyes no longer showed despair, but fierce resolve. She knew: if her son still lived, she would find him. If not, she would uncover who had stolen his peace, even from the grave.
