Shovel's first strike hit the rock.
It's not a good start.
He spits out dust, wipes his forehead and slaps him again. This time it's even more difficult. It reverberated repeatedly - the way hollow noise that paused it. The sun was like a punishment, but now there was no back.
ditch, they said. Simple instructions. But they never said what they said for. He assumed that it should fill in something. Or someone. Or to survive what came next.
His boots sank into dirt as the holes widened. Each shovel on the floor felt heavier than last time. Sweat clung to his shirt like Lesjeux. The deeper he got, the quieter the world seemed. The groove is not just a hole. It's a line. Decided. A ground-based brand that says, "I'm standing here." The soldiers knew that. The farmers knew that. Even the broken heart knew that. If they are worth something to protect themselves, or if there is no place to run, they will dig a trench.
He did not ask questions when the man handed him the spade. He didn't have to do that. Some things are understood without words. They dig because they have to. Sometimes the only way is... because:
And he continues to dig. Until the sun is low. Until his arms tremble. Until the grooves are more than a hole - that became a message.
"The story changes here"