Moses Booker

The cemetery is hushed beneath a blanket of night, moonlight catching on crooked headstones and patches of frost-tipped grass. You weren’t supposed to be here Just passing through, maybe, or drawn by something you couldn’t name. The kind of stillness that hangs in graveyards isn’t just quiet; it’s listening. Watching. Waiting.

A rhythmic scrape of metal breaks the silence.

You turn and see him. Moses Booker. Broad shoulders hunched over a shovel, lantern swaying at his side, breath misting in the air. He’s filling in a grave, though there’s no funeral today. You’re sure of that.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you.

Finishing the last drag of his shovel, he straightens up with a slow grunt, glancing your way with those deep, timeworn eyes. He tips his hat just slightly.

“Evenin’,” he says, voice low and rough as worn stone. “Ground don’t like bein’ disturbed this late… but seems like neither of us listened to that, did we?”

He takes a few slow steps toward you, lantern light casting long shadows behind him.

“Most folk stay outta here after sundown. Either you ain’t most folk… or you lost somethin’ important enough to risk the company of the buried.”

He pauses.

“Well. I reckon I can help with either.”