I steal bones from graves, but only the ones that whisper.

Moonlight is my only companion as I work. Its pale light filters through the trees, casting eerie shadows across endless gravestones.

I stroll through death, listening, waiting for one that catches my ear.

They tell through hushed tones, secrets buried deep beneath the ground. Some belong to forgotten lovers, others to lost children. Some are desperate for a listener, while others are exhausted and wish only to be left alone.

I do them a favor.

I listen, I gather, I collect, then I sell. It’s simple. They tell me their woes, and in return, their stories live on even through death.

The whispers are usually faint, no more than a breath against the still night air. But tonight is different.

As I near freshly disturbed soil, I hear a whisper, unlike the rest.

This one is not telling. It is calling.

My fingers sink eagerly into grassless dirt, drawn by its pull. It guides me fiercely as if demanding to be found. A thrill ignites my core. One can only imagine the sum of which a whisper like this will sell.

Right as my fingers graze bone, the sound shifts, and I hear it.

But these bones do not whisper secrets.

They voice a name.

My name. Not my known title. Bones only tell. They do not know. They do not see. They do not recognize. But these bones break the rules of death. My gaze frantically scans the gravestone, but it bears no name, only the raw mark of time and weather. Goosebumps rise along my skin as an unnatural cold settles in. The living only listens, they do not respond. Yet, if the rules of death can be broken, then I shall break the laws of the living. I lean closer, the scent of decay thick in my nose, and ask, “How do you know my name?” No answer. Only silence. I stare at the bones, my breath unsteady. The air is too still, the night too quiet. I let the bones slip from my hands, unease twisting in my gut as I turn to leave. But before I can take a step, the shadows move. A figure stands among the trees, woven from the night itself. Shadows spill outwards from its form. “You should not be here,” the darkness speaks. My breath snags in my throat. Its voice is no whisper—it’s something deeper, something that vibrates through my very bones. I blink. And it’s gone, absorbed back into the night. I whip my head around, searching the graves, the trees, the shadows. But nothing moves. Nothing breathes. I am alone. Despite my better judgment, I seize the skull of the anonymous skeleton that voices my name and run. Even behind closed doors, fright still clings to me. Candlelight flickers against the fractured surface of the bone, as if it’s been crushed almost to the point of shattering. I trace my fingers along its cracks to steady myself. I need answers. I need to understand. I rest my chin at its level on the table and plead, “Tell me your story. I am listening.” Hums rise from the skull, carried by the wind, growing, forming—extinguishing candlelight until it is no longer a hum. A voice. One I almost recognize. The voice strings together words until it forms a never-ending loop. “I gave warning. I do every time. But every time, it is the same fate.” The voice repeats, over and over, never sharing more or less. But I need more. My eyes blink rapidly against the night’s fog as I sneak past two mourners, leaving the graveyard with faces full of tears crafted by grief. “I don’t even remember her voice,” one says to the other. I keep my pace swift as I combine myself with the fog and shade of night. “Time itself could not heal this pain, but people pretend it does.” Their voices fade as I continue through rows of graves. Their whispers tugging at my ears, enticing me to listen, but I don’t obey. Need pulls me forward. The anonymous grave comes into view, but I feel its presence just before my feet reach the grassless dirt. I spin. Spiraling shadows fill my vision as darkness takes form just before me. Moonlight drapes over its curves and ridges—a face framed by sorrow with eyes of white. I do not run. I should. But something familiar keeps me rooted. I stand tall in hopes of answered questions. “Who are you?” I ask, breathless. A strand of shadows caresses my cheek. “I know who you are, Bone Collector.” I feel cold. Everything is cold. “How—” my breath is stolen as more shadows surround me, entangling my limbs, constricting my lungs. I try to fight, but I only grow colder. “I gave warning. I do every time. But every time, it is the same fate.” My feet lift from the ground, and I hover just above the nameless grave.

Those words. I’ve heard them before. The skull…where is it?

The darkness raises a hand. No, not darkness. A flash of memories bursts in my mind.

“You will forget soon enough. You always do.”

I stare right into its eyes. “Death…?” I gasp, just before shadows force my body to face the sky. And then, I fall.

My back hits the grave as shadows smother my body into the dirt. My vision is only stars. I try to resist its devastating strength but fail. I am becoming one with the nameless grave.

Nameless grave. I strain my head back just enough to see the name given to me at birth being carved into the stone. Pressure releases as my skull cracks, giving up its hold, and I am devoured by dirt and shadows. Black is the last thing I see before I feel the same heaviness, the same dampness, the same sense of ending. How many times has it been? I steal bones from graves, but only the ones that whisper.