Every Sunday without fail, she came—dressed in black, flowers in hand, heart heavy with loss. But this visit was different. As she approached her husband’s grave, something caught her eye: a gaping hole in the earth beside the tombstone. Her breath hitched. Had someone tried to disturb his resting place?
Kneeling, she examined the uneven edges, her pulse racing. Then she saw them—tiny claw marks along the tunnel walls. Not the work of grave robbers, but of nature’s little engineers: moles. The realization washed over her like a wave of relief.
For the first time in months, she smiled. Life, it seemed, persisted even here—beneath the soil, beneath her grief. As she carefully rearranged the flowers, she could almost hear her husband’s laughter. “You’d tease me for being so jumpy,” she whispered, brushing dirt from her hands. That day, the widow left the cemetery with something unexpected: a lighter heart.
