The cemetery caretaker had worked there for more than thirty years, memorizing every headstone, every tree, every patch of grass. But in the dead of winter, when frost covered everything in white and the ground was rock-hard, one grave stood out—it stayed unnaturally green.

The headstone read:
“To my beloved son, 1999–2025.”

No matter how harsh the frost, the grass remained vibrant. At first, the caretaker assumed someone was secretly tending it every day. He began arriving before dawn, hoping to catch the caretaker in the act—but each morning, he found no one.

Four mornings passed. The grave never froze, the earth stayed soft. He tried to rationalize it—strange soil, underground pipes—but unease gnawed at him.

By the fifth morning, curiosity and dread overcame caution. He grabbed a shovel and began digging. The soil yielded easily, almost inviting him deeper. But when the blade struck metal, a chill ran down his spine. It wasn’t a coffin or a wooden box—something cold, dense, and unnatural lay beneath.

As he cleared the earth by hand, a creeping horror settled over him. Whatever was buried there was not meant to be unearthed…