A Dead Man Who Held A Shovel

A Kind Women

Joe met a woman once, not just any woman. She was what most people would call. . . Overwhelming kind.

In a way, she reminded him of his mother, before all her problems.

This woman had shoulder-length, brunette hair that was slightly curved at the ends, her face was long and thin, her smile was bright, her eyes were a chocolate brown, that held a deep pain behind them.

Yamoni was her name.

She was one of the first people to talk to Joe in a long time and the kindest.

She had been standing there in front of a grave, a sorrowful smile on her face as she wiped away stray tears.

Joe just so happened to walk by, she struck a conversation.

At first, he simply wanted to get it over with, thinking she wanted some sort of closure for the death of a lover or something stupid like that, yet over time she spoke to him, he gained an understanding of her.

The grave was her father's, he had died by a bullet to the neck, in a war called The Grove War, the war started because two opposing sides wanted land called, The Grove.

Yamoni told Joe about herself, and in turn- along with some persuasion- he told her a little about himself.

The two became good friends.

Then she stopped visiting.

He realized that her father's grave was no longer there, ripped from the ground, the dirt scattered everywhere, parts of a corpse taken, an arm here, a foot there.

Grave robbers.

Joe had covered what remained of the body again, set a new stone, and put fresh flowers there.

After that, he left and never went back to that grave.

He didn't want to stay there, didn't want to make her life harder, for he blamed himself for her father's grave being robbed.

As time passed, he would pass her by, and she wouldn't recognize him.

In his hollow eyes, that was for the best.