A Voice Came From the Grave: “Tell My Mother I Never Forgave Her Murder”

A Voice Came From the Grave: “Tell My Mother I Never Forgave Her Murder”

I visit the graveyard every Thursday.

It’s quiet there.

Peaceful.

A place where the world slows down.

Where time stands still.

But not that day.

That Thursday, the wind was dry.

The air was heavy.

And something — I don’t know what — felt wrong.

---

The Walk

I entered with a small bottle of rosewater, some incense, and a copy of the Qur’an.

I always sat near a tree at the far end.

Today, I felt drawn somewhere else.

A newly dug grave.

Fresh.

The mud still damp.

No gravestone. Just a simple wood marker:

> “Fatima D/o Raheela — 19 yrs”

That was all.

I opened my book.

Read a short Surah.

And then… silence.

But not for long.

---

The Voice

As I recited the last verse, a cold breeze passed my ear.

And a whisper followed it.

A whisper that did not belong in this world.

> “Don’t let her cry over me.”

I froze.

At first, I thought I imagined it.

Wind… or maybe grief.

I closed the book.

And then I heard it again.

Clearer.

Sadder.

Sharper.

> “She killed me. My mother. She poisoned me. I never forgave her.”

I dropped the Qur’an.

My legs turned weak.

> “Tell her. I died knowing.”

---

Running Away

I ran.

Without looking back.

Without collecting the rosewater.

Without finishing the prayer.

I didn’t stop until I reached the mosque.

---

I sat there, heart racing.

Was I hallucinating?

Losing my mind?

Or did the dead just speak?

---

The Story Behind the Grave

I couldn't rest.

That night, I asked around.

Who was this girl — Fatima?

And what happened to her?

---

An old caretaker finally spoke.

> “She was brought here three days ago. Sudden death. No symptoms. No known illness. The mother was the only one crying.”

Only one crying.

Others, they said… were quiet.

Some even suspicious.

Her father had passed away years ago.

Her mother — a widow, bitter, strict.

Rumor had it Fatima had fallen in love.

With someone “unacceptable.”

From a different background.

And she was planning to run away.

---

But she never did.

Because two days before her planned escape…

She was found dead.

---

Whispers from the Dead

I returned to the grave the next day.

This time, in daylight.

I stood quietly.

No voice.

No wind.

Just silence.

Until I closed my eyes and whispered:

> “I believe you.”

A soft thump came from below.

So faint…

but real.

---

I felt it in my feet.

Like someone moving.

Or waiting.

---

That night, I had a dream.

A girl in white.

Standing beside her own grave.

Her hands red.

Her lips trembling.

She said only one thing:

> “She mixed it in the milk.”

And disappeared.

---

Justice Denied

I tried to raise the matter.

But no one believed me.

> “You’re traumatized.”

“The grief is making you hear things.”

“Stop spreading rumors.”

And her mother?

She now visits the grave every Friday.

Weeping.

Wailing.

Praying.

But I watch from afar.

And each time she touches the grave…

The flowers wilt faster than they should.

---

My Burden

I know what I heard.

What I dreamed.

What that girl said from beneath the soil.

She didn’t ask for revenge.

She didn’t ask for the world to know.

She just asked me…

> “Don’t let her cry over me.”

---

So every Friday, I stand far…

And whisper back:

> “She may cry. But I remember what you said.”

And in that moment…

A strange calm returns to the grave.

---

Some Truths Don’t Die

This world may silence the weak.

But death?

Death listens.

Records.

Waits.

And sometimes…

speaks back.