He always went alone. It didn’t matter if it was raining, snowing, or unbearably hot. He would arrive, park in the same space, and walk the familiar path he could navigate with his eyes closed.
The pain hadn’t faded. Every time he saw her name carved into the stone, something inside his chest tightened.
That October morning felt colder than usual. The wind cut through his coat, and dry leaves crunched under his shoes. As he approached the grave, he suddenly stopped.
There was movement.
Near Margaret’s headstone.
He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer until the shape became clear—a small girl, maybe seven years old, kneeling in the dirt. Her clothes were worn and stained, her hair tangled, her hands covered in soil. She was digging with a small plastic shovel, the kind kids used at the beach.
Daniel’s heart skipped.
This wasn’t just strange—it was wrong.
She kept digging, focused, almost peaceful, as if she were playing. But she wasn’t playing. She was disturbing the soil above Margaret’s grave.
“What are you doing?” he asked, sharper than he intended.
The girl looked up calmly, not startled at all.
“This grave isn’t real,” she said quietly. “She’s not here.”
The words hit him like a blow.