The Gravers arrived every November. 

When the vibrant mosaics of October turned into stale and scattered browns; when the sweet-smelling October air turned into a cold so sharp it stung as you inhaled; when sleepy sunsets of October turned into darkness so abrupt that you found yourself forgetting how to long for the sun; when all this happened and more, the Gravers arrived.

They marched in a single line, the soft padding of their footsteps echoing across the slowly-freezing town. They wore only grey: grey dresses, grey pants, and grey shirts. They were so grey that even their hair and skin appeared so too. On their feet, they donned work boots, and over their shoulders, shovels. 

The Gravers looked nowhere but the sky. Why, I did not know, for there was little to entrance the eye. The sky was merely a weight of sheer white so pure it made the spindly and malicious fingers of the leafless trees ever more apparent. Perhaps they were waiting—waiting for the snow building in the clouds to finally fall.

The new Graver was not accustomed to this practice. He could not resist looking at his surroundings; his wide, eager eyes roamed and devoured the world behind, in front of, and all around him. Unlike the others, his eyes did not emit the haze of grey. His irises were a dark and painful green, and his pupils were bottomless pools, alert with the curse of a dying hope unfulfilled.

There are only two rules to being a Graver, the elders told the boy. Number one, you don’t grieve. And number two, you don’t cry.  We Gravers don’t dwell—we dig, and we march, and we keep pace with time.

And so they marched: the old Gravers clutching their shovels like shields and the new Graver clutching it like a sword. Their footsteps sounded in unison—in a single, united heartbeat that urged them onwards. The new Graver tried to mimic the others, forcing his head to the sky. He focused on a pair of dancing birds, following their fluttery movements as they drew patterns through the clouds. This is likely the last time I’ll see the birds, the new Graver thought, for snow is coming to send us all to sleep.

He watched them until the thud of his boots on the pavement became a crunch as he stepped on freezing soil and plants: the graveyard. It was here that the Gravers dispersed, scattering into the desolate, dry field. The new Graver followed their lead, stumbling across the uneven terrain until he found a bare plot of land separate from the others.

In unison, the Gravers raised their shovels and began to dig. 

At first, the tip of the new Graver’s shovel recoiled upon contact with the firm ground. Yet, as he continued to strike and pound the frozen dirt, the metal tip of his shovel broke the thin layer of frost, and digging became easier. 

The dirt that the Gravers dug was crumbly and loose. It fell from their shovels when they wrenched them from the ground, sprinkling the hunched figures in grey dust. Pitiful piles formed behind them, growing in magnitude until their peaks cast shadows over their bent heads and throbbing arms.

At last, the holes were dug, and the Gravers stepped back to admire their work. Then, they turned their heads back to the sky, grimly acknowledging the sight of clouds so dense and thick they seemed to brim with waiting snow.

A chilled wind crept through the clearing, rustling the branches of the leafless trees and sending a harsh shiver down the backs of the Gravers, reminding them of the passing time and coming snow. 

The Gravers dropped their shovels and marched off the field towards the town. The new Graver watched them go, bewildered and confused. 

Where are they going? He asked the Graver nearest him.

To find a corpse. He replied.

After digging the graves, the new Graver learned, the Gravers set out to find a person or an object to bury. Into the earth it went—and with it, the memories attached. Some Gravers, usually the young, would choose to bury themselves.

Be wise, the Gravers told him, you have only one memory to release. Release it, bury it, and from it go forth. 

So, the new Graver found a quiet spot to sit and think and remember. He curled into himself with memories of being laughed at, stepped on, and forgotten. Memories of his fist striking forward and hands pushing back. Memories of pain, sadness, and loathing. 

One? How could he choose just one?

The wind swept through the town, crawling its way under the skin of the new Graver until he recoiled in pain. He leapt up and ran home, wincing with the sting of the violent wind on his bare neck. He tore through his room, gathering his possessions from the cupboards and cracks in which he had hidden them away. 

A pile of his dusty things formed on his bed, laughably smaller in size than the pile of dirt removed from the Earth in order to bury them. From this pile of dusty things, the new Graver withdrew a mirror.

He stood, drew his coat tightly around his shoulders, and walked back to the graveyard with the mirror in hand.

That night, the remaining Gravers filled their graves with persons and sentimentals, and sometimes, themselves. The new Graver placed his mirror in his grave, the glass surface turned to the sky so that it reflected his green eyes and glowing skin.

The Gravers stood in silence as the snow came down and covered their newly-filled graves in a soft, frozen blanket—- memories never to be remembered again. 

Under the grey glow of the moon, the new Graver returned home, no longer bothered by the cruelty of the cold.