His wife had passed away from illness many years earlier. Their young son had died in a traffic accident before reaching his tenth birthday. Since then, Thomas had learned how to exist without expecting joy. He worked nights, slept days, and lived alone in a small apartment near Flatbush Avenue. Silence had become his closest companion.
The rain intensified, drumming against the metal roof above him, and Thomas decided it was time to leave. As he reached for his keys, a sound sliced through the storm and froze him in place.
It was a human voice. Weak. Strained. Barely louder than the rain.
He listened again, hoping it was his imagination. Then it came once more, clearer this time, filled with pain and desperation.
“Please. Someone help me.”
His breath caught in his throat. In a place like this, at such an hour, a living voice felt more frightening than anything supernatural. Thomas hesitated only a moment before switching on his phone light and stepping beyond the shelter.
He followed the sound between rows of graves, his shoes sinking into mud, his light trembling as much from fear as from the cold. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest.