Annabelle is a young girl, barely eight years old. She stands in front of a pit, just freshly dug.
The gravedigger, alone, is struggling to lower a coffin into the depths of the hole. A hole that he dug himself. Drops of sweat form and slide down his forehead. One of them makes its way to his nose and stays attached to its tip for a second. A second in which it reflects a rainbow of the surrounding colors. Under the pull of gravity, it has no choice but to detach itself and fall onto the freshly torn earth.
Annabelle couldn't afford more. She had to settle for a single man.
The cheap pine wood coffin contains the body of her mother. No paint, no varnish, no decoration adorns it. She gave her the bare minimum. It's all this woman deserves, after everything she put her through these last months.
The squeaking of hemp ropes scraping the earth echoes in the silence. A young priest stands not far off, still standing, but half-sitting on the edge of another tombstone. He watches the little girl, dressed in a bright white dress.
The strands of her long brown hair, tousled by the wind, stick to her face. They partially cover her piercing blue eyes, which reflect the sunny, cloudless sky.
The scent of spring fills the air with its floral perfume. The buds on the trees, partially open, reveal their young green shoots. The songs of birds, along with the sounds of various animals, resonate in the cemetery. All this on a small plot of land where a hundred stones rise to honor the lost generations.
THUD! The sound of the coffin hitting the bottom of the pit echoes.
The gravedigger gasps, trembling slightly. Exhausted, he walks toward a tree that offers some shade nearby. He lets himself fall onto the grass with a sigh of relief. The poor man has been completely drained of his energy by the task, thinking he might enjoy a moment of respite.
— What are you doing? Now's not the time to sit down. Finish your work.
Annabelle, unyielding, speaks in a dry, unambiguous voice. And this, despite her young age.
The gravedigger looks at her, annoyed.
— Let the body cool for a bit, would you? I've been digging up earth full of rocks and roots for hours. It won't take long to refill, just wait a little. I'm tired.
The fragile silhouette of the young girl trembles. The muscles in her neck and shoulders are tense, as if caught in a vise. Her whole body twitches nervously, and her nerves have been worn out long ago. The death of her parents, especially her father, left a void. A nothingness that makes her hypersensitive.
— Shut up and bury her. I'm not asking for the moon, as far as I know. I've already paid you to do your job.
The priest, unable to stay there doing nothing any longer, stood up to join them. He began speaking to her with a softness he hoped would be soothing. However, the effect wasn't quite successful.
— Calm down, Annabelle. I know it's really hard to lose your parents so quickly. But I'm sure time...
She cut him off, sharply:
— That time will heal the wounds. What do I care right now?
The priest frowned, unsure what to say, but still trying to convince her.
— Funerals are meant to say goodbye with respect for the dead. Even the gravedigger deserves that, don't you think?
— Really? Because you think he's speaking well of my mother? she said, pointing at the yellowed man wiping his forehead, and getting dirt all over his face.
This time, the priest didn't know what to say. He just looked at his friend with pity.
— Hey, little girl, you could be more patient and respectful in life. You'll see, it'll take you far, replied the gravedigger, thinking he had the last word.
— You think that will change anything, huh? That I'll cry for her? My mother is dead, and nothing will bring her back. Patience and respect? What's the use of that?
She pointed to the gravestone.
— You think I have the patience to show compassion and respect for a scoundrel like you? It's something that has to be earned. Do you think you deserve it?
This time, the man was insulted and gripped the handle of his shovel, glaring at her with intensity. She seemed to realize the difference in strength between them and hid behind the priest without shame. The priest let out a long sigh. He knew his friend's sharp tongue and still didn't know how to make him change. He also had a dreadful temper.
— Relax, Henry. Just fill the hole, so that we can finish.
The gravedigger froze, then nodded slowly.
— It's because you're asking me. Don't get any ideas, little girl.
He turned around and drastically increased his pace at the labor. He only had one thing in mind: getting home to dinner.
Unlike the digging of the hole, which had dragged on since dawn, and the sun was now at its zenith, the filling-in was swift. In barely half an hour, the ground was level again.
Henry's arms were literally burning. That was enough. This last effort had finished him off, forcing him to sit again under the tree's shade. He looked at his friend with a tinge of resentment. The priest stood there, clean in his immaculate clothes. To add a layer to it, the priest gave a slight smile and shrugged. He wasn't paid to dig.
Annabelle peeked her head out from behind the priest and dared to step toward her mother's grave. She read the inscription on it.
A lie for a hypocritical woman.
A loving and devoted mother.
May her soul rest in peace.
Gone too soon, but never forgotten.
She raised her hand to place it on the cheap gray stone. Fine dust crumbled away with that simple gesture. A lump formed in her throat, lodged sideways. Despite everything that had happened, love remained. It stayed, even if buried deep in her heart.
— Ahem... Well. I guess it's time to recite the funeral rites.
The priest pulled a small, thick book from one of his pockets. Flipping through the pages one by one to find the right verse to pronounce, he squinted at the tiny characters. Ready to begin, he opened his mouth, and...
— Let it go!
Annabelle, her head lowered, had no desire to hear him preach for her mother. He hesitated.
— But for your father...
— My father was a good man. A dignified and kind man. My mother, she's a hypocrite without merit.
The priest remembered Albert's funeral, where nearly the entire village was present. And for those absent, it was for legitimate reasons. In contrast to the deserted ceremony he now faced, the difference was striking. He just nodded.
A heavy silence fell between them. Henry had slipped away a long time ago, leaving them alone at the site.
This silence stretched for a long time. But it was broken by distant murmurs.
At the edge of the forest, the crackling of twigs drew their attention, followed by footsteps slowly approaching. Two silhouettes appeared in the distance, still indistinct in the daylight.