During her sons funeral, his mother took an axe and struck the coffin lid repeatedly. When it shattered, the crowd saw something horrifying.
I wont attend the burial. Thats not my son.
Mum, what are you saying? This is your sons funeralmy husbands. How can you refuse to go?
You dont understand. My boy isnt in that coffin. Theyre lying. Theyre hiding something.
But you saw the documents. They explainedhis face was unrecognisable after the accident, but the DNA test confirmed it was him.
Its not him. I know it.
Youre grieving. You cant accept hes gone.
My son is alive. Stop speaking of him in the past tense.
Despite everyones pleas, the mother refused to yield. Hours later, she finally agreed to attendbut she wore a blue coat instead of black and clutched a heavy black bag, never letting go. Her daughter-in-law said nothing more. At least she had come.
The day was bleak, dark clouds hanging low over the cemetery. As the ceremony began and nails were hammered into the coffin lid, the mother suddenly stepped forward, her face bloodless. She set the bag down, pulled out an axe, and before anyone could react, swung with all her strength.
The wood splintered. One strike, then anotherthe coffin cracked nearly in half.
Silence. Some covered their mouths; others stepped back instinctively. The vicar looked down as if wishing to disappear. Then, a scream tore through the air.
Its empty!
Chaos erupted. Men turned on the gravediggers, demanding answers. Someone called the police. The daughter-in-law dropped her purse, paling. The mother stood over the shattered coffin, gripping the axe so tightly her knuckles whitened.
I told you, she said, her voice quiet but clear. My son isnt here.
A thin man in a cemetery attendants uniform pushed through the crowd, hesitating before speaking.
The body was taken. Last night. Two men came showed paperwork said it was being moved to another citys morgue for further examination. I I didnt know
His words cut like icy wind. Where had they taken him? Who were these men?
The police arrived swiftly, questioning witnesses. But the worst revelation came laterthe morgues records showed no transfer. Instead, beside the sons name was a single note: *Disposalclerical error.*
Someone had erased all traces of his existence after death or staged the death itself.
The mother sank onto a bench, clutching a broken piece of the coffin lid. Her eyes held not despair, but resolve. She knew: if he was alive, shed find him. If he was truly gone, shed hunt down those who denied him even the peace of a grave.
Truth, like grief, cannot be buried forever.
