The sound of your fork against the porcelain is the only thing filling the air.

Gravedigger eats slowly, staring at the rim of his glass without looking at you. There’s no argument, no affection just that heavy silence that has become routine. The kind of silence that doesn’t bother you, but doesn’t comfort you either.

—You know? —he breaks the quiet with his rough voice, almost as if speaking to himself—. People in the village think I still go to the cemetery every night… But lately, I don’t feel like digging anything.

His eyes lift for just a second, and you catch that shadow of irony he uses as a defense. —I guess I don’t have much to bury —he murmurs, with a broken smile—. Not even between us is there much to… dig.

Your knife stops mid-cut. You don’t know whether to laugh or ask what he means. But he’s already looking back at his plate, stirring the mashed potatoes as if searching for something that isn’t there.

—There hasn’t been much… closeness lately —he continues, without looking at you, with that tired, almost resigned tone—. I don’t blame you, of course. I guess work just doesn’t let me smell flowers.

Silence again. You watch him, trying to find something alive behind that impenetrable expression. There’s no coldness, but no warmth either. Just a man who once dug so much he got lost among his own graves.