— I’m not going to the funeral, that’s not my son.

— Mom, what are you saying? It’s your son’s, my husband’s, funeral—how can you not go?

— You don’t understand, my son is not in this coffin, they’re lying, they’re hiding something.

Mom, but you saw the documents. They explained that his face became unrecognizable due to the accident, but the DNA test confirmed it was him.

— That’s not my son, I feel it.

— You’re just grieving, you don’t want to believe he’s no longer with us.

My son is alive. Stop talking about him in the past tense.

Despite all the persuasion, the mother remained firm. After a few hours, however, she agreed to attend the funeral. She refused to wear black and put on a blue coat.

In her hands was a thick black bag that she didn’t let go of for a moment. The daughter-in-law said nothing more—the important thing was that the mother-in-law agreed to come.

The weather that day was gloomy, clouds hung low over the cemetery. When the ceremony began and they started nailing the coffin lid, the mother suddenly stepped forward.

Her face was pale. She placed the bag on the ground, grabbed the axe, and before anyone could react, raised it and struck the coffin lid with full force.

There was a crack, the boards flew apart. One strike, a second—and the coffin split almost in half.

…A moment of silence hung. People froze, some covered their mouths with their hands, others instinctively stepped back. The priest lowered his eyes, as if hoping to disappear. The attendees were frozen, then a scream rang out:

— There… it’s empty!

Panic ensued. Several men rushed to the gravediggers with questions, someone called the police. The daughter-in-law, pale, dropped her purse.

The mother, breathing heavily, stood over the broken coffin, gripping the axe so tightly her knuckles went white.

— I told you, — she said quietly but clearly — my son is not here.

At that moment, a thin man in a cemetery guard uniform pushed through the crowd. He hesitated, then gathered courage:

— The body… was taken. At night. Two people came… showed documents… said it was being transported to another city’s morgue for a re-examination. I… I didn’t know it was like this…

These words pierced everyone like a cold wind. Where could they have taken the body? Who were these people?

The police arrived quickly, witness questioning began. But the worst was revealed a little later: the morgue log had no record of the transport.

Instead of the son’s name, it said “disposal—error in documents.” This meant someone had deliberately erased all traces of his existence after death… or staged the death itself.

The mother sat on a bench, holding a piece of the coffin lid in her hands. In her eyes was not despair, but determination. She knew: if he is alive—she will find him. If he is gone—she will find those who denied him even peace in the grave.