Crack. Splinters flew.
One strike, then another, until the coffin split nearly in half.
The crowd froze in horrified silence. Some gasped, others stumbled back. The priest lowered his eyes, as if wishing to disappear. Then a strangled cry broke out:
“It’s… empty!”
Chaos erupted. Men rushed the gravediggers, phones dialed the police, and the daughter-in-law dropped her purse in shock. The mother stood over the shattered coffin, gripping the axe so tight her knuckles turned white.
“I told you,” she said evenly, “my son is not here.”
A frail cemetery guard stepped forward, voice shaking.
“The body… was taken. At night. Two people came with documents… said it needed to be moved to another city for re-examination. I… I didn’t know this would happen.”
His words fell like ice on the mourners. Who were those people? Where had they taken the body?
Police swarmed the cemetery, but the investigation only deepened the nightmare. No morgue record existed of any transfer. Instead of the son’s name, the log carried a chilling line: “disposal – clerical error.” Someone had deliberately erased him—or staged his death entirely.
The mother sank onto a bench, clutching a broken piece of wood from the coffin. Her eyes no longer showed grief, but steel resolve. If her son still lived, she would find him. If not, she would uncover who had stolen even his rest in death.
