The shovel struck wood with a dull thunk in the moonlit graveyard. Elias wiped his brow with a dirt-streaked sleeve, glancing around the silent cemetery before crouching down to pry the coffin lid open. The rich had no need for their jewelry in death, and Elias had mouths to feed.

The hinges groaned as he lifted the lid, his fingers steady despite the years of decay and rot he’d disturbed in the past. But tonight was different. The moment the coffin cracked open, a sound, wet and ragged, clawed its way out of the box—a breath.

Elias stumbled back, his pulse hammering. His mind scrambled for logic. The dead did not breathe.

A wheezing gasp followed, and then—movement. A pale hand twitched in the dim light. The figure inside shuddered, their sunken eyes fluttering open. Their lips parted, trying to form words, but only a choking sound emerged.

Horror rooted Elias to the spot. Whoever this was, they had been buried alive.

Instinct finally overrode shock. He reached down and hauled the half-conscious figure out, their body weak and trembling. Their clothes were fine but torn, the remnants of lace and silk caked in dirt. A burial gone wrong? Or something worse?

The figure’s fingers latched onto his arm, their grip weak but desperate. Their lips trembled before they forced out a whisper.

"Help."