In the early 1800s, the churchyard sat at the edge of town, where the cobbled road gave way to grass worn thin by generations of mourners. It was a place of routine rather than fear. Death, after all, was familiar then, expected, respected, and carefully tended.
Vigil was the last to leave.
No one remembers their name now, only the habit. Each evening, after the final prayer and the last footstep faded, Vigil would make one slow circuit of the churchyard. They straightened flowers knocked loose by wind, pressed loose soil back into place, and paused briefly at each grave as if acknowledging it.
It was not duty that kept them there.
It was kindness.
In those days, the churchyard had gates that were locked at dusk. Vigil carried the keys. When a burial ended and the mourners drifted home, someone had to remain behind long enough to ensure the dead were not left abruptly alone. Vigil believed that mattered.
On the night they died, there was no storm, no alarm. Just a quiet evening and a familiar walk. The lantern burned low. The gates were closed. Vigil sat on the stone step beside the church door to rest, intending only a moment.
They never rose again.
By morning, the body was found peacefully still, keys resting beside it. The town buried Vigil in the same ground they had tended for so long. The role, they assumed, was finished.
But Vigil did not leave.
The ghost that remains does not wander. It does not cry out, rattle chains, or disturb the earth. It stands where it always did, at the edge of paths, beneath bare branches, near stones whose names have faded. Vigil keeps watch through nights that stretch endlessly, ensuring no grave is forgotten, no soul unacknowledged.
Those who pass through the churchyard after dark feel it first as a presence. Not fear, but awareness. A sense that someone unseen has noticed them and found no fault. Candles burn steadily near Vigil. Flowers remain upright a little longer than they should. Even the wind seems to soften.
Vigil does not follow visitors home.
It does not interfere.
It simply stays.
Because someone must.
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