Mr. Thomas, or simply Thomas as everyone in the remote village cemetery called him, drove his shovel deep into the heavy, moist earth with a familiar, weary grunt. It was just another day, no different from the hundreds that had come before.
He had been doing this work for over two decades, ever since the harsh, indifferent city had dumped him like an old, worn-out tool.
Now he lived on the fringes of society, in a world where the d.ead spoke no lies and where silence reigned supreme.
In this solemn place, surrounded by weathered gravestones and ancient birches, Thomas found a kind of peace. There was no need for pretenses here. While he often muttered about the younger generation—glued to their screens, disconnected from real emotion—he did so not with bitterness, but with a kind of tired resignation.
But Thomas remained rooted, grounded like the graves he dug. He had long accepted the ache in his bones, the scent of damp earth, and the solitude that wrapped around him like an old coat. It was a hard life, but it brought him a strange comfort.
“Grandpa Thomas!” a high, cheerful voice rang out suddenly.
A slight girl, maybe eight years old, came skipping across the uneven ground, her figure barely more than a silhouette in the dim morning light. This was Lily—his frequent little visitor, a child who had somehow become as much a part of the cemetery as the moss-covered crosses and the cawing crows that perched above.
“There you are again, my little bird,” Thomas said.
