It was colder than usual.

Later, I would recall that day as being the kind of cold that reaches marrow deep, that might – just might – start to crystallize your blood. At the time, though, I was too preoccupied to care.

That night, I had the thrill that always accompanied my midnight trysts. The life of a grave robber isn't for the mundane. The thrill of getting caught provides a lifetime of excitement in the span of a few hours. I never found any prizes that lasted long (people didn't bury their most prized possessions, they passed them on), but then again, I didn't do it for the money or the trinkets.

No, I was the king of the illicit, the master of the shadows. That was what my darker nature had always craved. Who cared if a few devoid shells had their dignity trampled on?

Not I. Or not now, at least. Upstanding citizen as I was by day, my demons far outweighed my conscience in the night. And so it was that I again began to dig.

By day, I was a community leader.
(The mud covered the sleeves of my collared shirt.)

I was the head of the neighborhood watch, working vigorously to keep our children safe.
(I think there was a worm in my hair.)

The Bible study I led was thriving, with over 30 people seeking God through the lessons I prepared.
(The dirt stood three feet high now outside the hole.)

It was a lie that I projected, but I seemed quite beautiful while I maintained my focus on my wholesome side.
(The digging didn't seem so heinous when I actually had the shovel in my hand, darkness as my cover – it was rather electrifying, really.)

CRACK.

After 30 minutes work, I had struck my mark.

The casket appeared rather elaborate, more than the standard fare I had encountered. As I further unearthed its pearly marble, I almost – almost, mind you – felt a tinge of shame for having defiled it with my shovel. Something this lovely didn't belong underground, I thought to myself.

Then again, what did I care? This was fun, my exciting life. The excavation continued.

I finally uncovered the lid, sealed with a lock, and I felt a rush of anticipation. I usually wasn't worried much about the contents of the casket, but on this night, in this hole, I was mesmerized at the thought of what might be revealed.

As I broke (with a slight tinge of hesitation) the beautiful golden hinges of this death box, dirt began creeping into the hole, little by little. Undeterred, I nevertheless lifted the lid.

There you were, encased in a block of ice spanning the length of the casket. Beautiful, tranquil, happy. I didn't know how to react, and for a fleeting moment I was well pleased. Then a wave of guilt crashed over me and in an instant, the ice and my pleasure seemed to evaporate into thin air.

You were awake, eyes wide open, and you had seen me.

The door closed. You reached up and grabbed it, slamming it shut with a resounding thud. I didn't know what to do, so I crawled out of the hole in a panic, almost hyperventilating. The curtain between my two lives had vanished somehow, and my conscience gripped my throat with steel hands. I had disturbed something, someone, truly beautiful.

In a way, I awoke as well on that night. Even as I dug in the past, I had embraced the me I was by day – it was my identity, protecting me from looking at my dirty hands. I wanted to be the light, but I wasn't strong enough to do it on my own, and so I slowly lowered myself into the darkness. By then, it was me, and the light was merely a costume.

I went back to the graveyard a few times over the next year, but with a different, singular purpose. I had given up digging for thrills – I just needed to see the woman in ice, see you, one more time. Each time I saw that beautiful casket, I was nearly paralyzed, and I could never bring myself to open it. I couldn't help but realize that this was a foreign place, one in which I did not belong.

Sometimes, I would hear a knock on the casket, but it was not a cry for help. It was urging me to leave. I had, after all, awakened you from a peaceful slumber.

Eventually, I left the graveyard for good. I took time to dig up the side of me I had buried over the years. As I struck earth, I noticed a Hand guiding the shovel and I knew that somehow, I was not alone. Something on High began to lift the guilt from my shoulders.

But I will never bury the image of the woman in ice, nor the look she gave me when she awoke.

I burned the shovel.