The ritual never varied—black dress, fresh gladiolus, silent tears. But this Sunday, the widow’s routine shattered when she spotted a disturbing sight: the earth beside her husband’s grave had been torn open.
Her first thought was unthinkable. Had someone…? Trembling, she peered into the darkness. Then she noticed the telltale signs—narrow tunnels, not dug by human hands. Moles. Simple, harmless moles.
The tension drained from her shoulders. How ironic that these small creatures, going about their underground lives, had reminded her that the world still turned. As she fixed the disturbed flowers, she found herself speaking aloud: “You’d say I watch too many crime dramas.” For the first time since his passing, her visit ended with something resembling peace.
