The cemetery clung to the mountainside like a scar, its rows of crooked gravestones slicing through pale grass and dark soil, reaching toward the persistent fog that enveloped the Village.
Even at noon, the air here was cold, not the biting chill of winter, but a dull coolness characteristic of a place seldom graced by sunlight.
Reigen wiped mud from his hands against his trousers and plunged his shovel into the earth once more.
Thud.
Soil struck wood. The sound echoed faintly among the graves. Below lay a simple coffin, devoid of carvings or clan markings, just dark planks hastily nailed together, already stained by damp earth. Inside rested the body of a middle-aged man from the lower village, a hunter known for his strength and vitality.
He had died in his sleep, or so the villagers claimed. Yet when they had washed him, Reigen noticed blackened veins spidering across his chest.
He observed how the man's lips were tinged with an unnatural purple hue and saw a thin line of dried blood trailing from one ear. No beast had inflicted those wounds.
No illness Reigen recognized left such marks. A few villagers stood around the grave in silence, heads bowed and hands clasped, as murmured prayers drifted weakly into the fog before being consumed by it.
Reigen's father stood on the opposite side of the pit, tall and broad-shouldered, his black coat immaculate despite the surrounding mud. His hair was tied back neatly, streaked faintly with gray. His expression remained calm, too calm for someone who dealt exclusively with death.
When final words were spoken, villagers stepped back. Only Reigen and his father remained.
Reigen lifted his shovel again.
Thud.
The coffin sank beneath layers of earth.
Minutes passed in silence save for soil falling and wind whispering through mountain grass.
Finally, Reigen broke that stillness.
"Father."
His father did not look up. "Mm."
"Why did he really die?"
The shovel paused momentarily; only wind stirred between them.
Then his father resumed digging slowly yet steadily. "Sometimes bodies cease to function. Sometimes minds fracture. Sometimes something within collapses."
"That doesn't explain those marks."
"No."
Reigen hesitated; he had learned that when his father responded this way, further inquiry rarely yielded answers.
"Then why do we bury people like this?" he asked. "There are stronger men in the village. Why are we always called?"
His father exhaled softly through his nose.
"Because burial is not about strength."
He planted his shovel upright and finally met Reigen's gaze. "Most believe that once a person dies, they are gone," he said. "They think everything ends when the heart stops beating, but that is true only for some."
Reigen frowned in confusion. "What does that mean?"
"It means," his father replied, "that not all deaths are complete. Some leave things behind. Some leave doors open. And some… do not realize they are finished."
A faint chill crept up Reigen's spine.
"Are you saying spirits?" he asked.
His father shook his head. "Spirits are stories. I am referring to something simpler."
He glanced toward the coffin being covered with soil.
"Transitions."
Reigen struggled to grasp the meaning. He often found himself lost when his father spoke in such abstract terms. They continued their work in silence, and as the grave filled, Reigen became aware of an unsettling pressure at the edge of his senses.
It felt as though the air had thickened around them. The sounds of the mountain dulled, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
He looked around and noticed that the fog between the headstones had grown denser.
"Father," he said quietly, "do you feel that?"
His father's grip on the shovel tightened almost imperceptibly.
"It is nothing," he replied after a brief pause.
Yet his gaze had shifted, not toward the grave but toward the tree line higher up the slope.
The pressure dissipated, and Reigen exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. They completed their task by adding a simple wooden marker at the head of the grave, no name, no date; those details would be carved later by villagers.
With their work finished, they stood alone among the stones. Reigen washed his hands from a water jug they always brought along before looking back at the grave once more.
"Father," he asked, "why did you choose this life?"
His father remained silent for a long moment.
"When I was young," he finally said, "I believed that what mattered most were the living, power, ambition, and future aspirations."
He turned slightly to survey the endless rows of graves. "Then I learned that what truly shapes our world is not how people live… but how they end."
"Undertakers," his father continued, "are not merely caretakers of bodies; we are custodians of boundaries."
"Boundaries between what?" Reigen inquired.
His father met his gaze directly. Between one heartbeat and another. Between what moves forward… and what should remain behind.
But instead of elaborating further, he reached out to brush dirt from Reigen's sleeve, a gesture he had performed since Reigen was small.
"Remember this place," he instructed gently. "Not because of the graves themselves but because of what they signify."
Reigen nodded, though he found it difficult to fully comprehend his father's words.
As they turned to leave, walking down the narrow mountain path, Reigen glanced back one last time.
For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw movement in the soil atop the fresh grave before it vanished into fog once more. leaving only stone and mist behind.
Reigen reassured himself that it was nothing. Behind him, his father had come to a halt. He remained motionless, his gaze locked onto the mountains that loomed beyond the village.
For the first time in his life, the man who had dedicated himself to burying the dead appeared anything but composed.
Reigen observed his father, who stood frozen in place, staring ahead with a vacant expression. Confusion washed over him as he glanced between his father and the empty space that had captivated his attention.
"Father... is everything okay?" Reigen called out gently.
"It's nothing; let's hurry back," his father replied, shaking off the daze as he adjusted his collar and resumed walking forward.
Reigen shrugged at this response; he was not particularly surprised by his father's behavior. Having grown accustomed to it since childhood, he recalled how such moments had once shocked him. Now, however, they were simply part of their routine.
The morning sun cast a reflective glow on the mountains, while thick fog rolled in, seemingly following the father and son as they made their way onward.