A sharp wind swept across Oakwood Cemetery the day Mary Dawson was laid to rest. Friends and neighbors gathered in hushed grief, heads bowed beneath the gray sky. She had been the heart of the village—a kind, steady matriarch who baked for strangers and gave second chances without being asked.
Her family stood around the grave in silent mourning. Clara knelt beside her six-year-old son Michael, her hands trembling on his small shoulders. Just steps away, her younger brother Jason stood stiffly, eyes dry. Some whispered he looked more detached than devastated—a quiet observation that would later hold chilling weight.
Everyone believed Mary’s death had been an accident. She was found at the foot of her stairs, her hand twisted unnaturally and a pool of blood beneath her head. The authorities chalked it up to a tragic fall. Case closed.
But Clara couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Just days before her mother died, Mary had whispered something strange: “If anything happens to me, don’t trust everything you see.” She’d also mentioned changing the will and the password to the safe.
Then came the moment
As the funeral bell tolled and the coffin began to lower into the ground, Michael—mute since birth—suddenly jerked in Clara’s arms. He began to tremble. And then he screamed:
“He pushed her down the stairs! I saw it! I saw it!”
A gasp rippled through the mourners. The priest froze mid-prayer. Heads whipped toward the child. Jason’s face went ashen. Clara’s breath caught. She clutched her son, stunned. Around
