I noticed it one morning, just as the sun began to spill gold across the yard.
My pig, Chester, was digging again. In the same spot as always — tirelessly, stubbornly, with a strange sort of determination.

At first, I laughed. “What’d you find this time, buddy — buried treasure?” I said aloud, watching his pink back shimmer with dust. But day after day, he kept returning to that same patch of dirt. My amusement slowly turned into unease.

I tried to fill the hole back in — twice, three times. But every morning, Chester would dig it open again, snorting and squealing softly, as if something was calling to him from under the clay.

By the third evening, I gave in. I grabbed a shovel.
He stood beside me, almost expectantly, twitching his snout each time I struck the ground.
The soil was dense and wet. I dug for about ten minutes before the shovel hit something hard.

A dull thunk.
I crouched down, brushed the dirt aside with my hands.
My fingers touched fabric — thick, rough, faded blue.

A chill crawled up my spine. This wasn’t trash. Not a bag. It was clothing.
Carefully, I cleared away more earth. A sleeve. Then a thin, pale wrist.

The world seemed to collapse into silence. Only Chester’s heavy breathing filled the air.

I stumbled back, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
My hands shook as I dialed the police.
“I… I found…” The words came out in fragments. “…a body. On my property.”

Everything after that blurred together — sirens, footsteps, commands. Officers surrounded the hole, exchanging grim looks.
Someone muttered quietly, “Female. Been here a long time.”

Later, I overheard them talking.
Years ago, this farm had belonged to the Wilson family. Neighbors remembered — the wife disappeared suddenly. The husband said she’d left him, then sold the place and moved away. The case was closed.

Now, it all made sense.

I stood by the pen, watching Chester. He grunted softly, as usual, but there was something knowing in his eyes.
He’d sensed the truth before anyone else.

And I realized — sometimes even a simple animal can hear what people refuse to: the whisper of the past, calling from beneath the earth.

Now, whenever I pass that corner of the yard, I still hear the echo of the shovel striking something solid — and Chester’s quiet snort beside me.
A reminder that secrets never stay buried forever.