She just sat silently, watching him for hours. We thought she was in shock, until late that night, when she climbed inside to lie with him. We all rushed to get her out, but then something happened… something impossible, that brought the entire room to a stunned
Camila, only 8 years old, stood frozen beside the coffin.
They had been at the wake for hours, and she hadn’t stepped away even once. Her mother tried several times to pull her aside, but she resisted. She insisted on staying with her father, and she did not cry; she only gazed at him silently.
Visitors came to offer condolences. Some looked at her with pity, yet she gave no response—her small hands remained on the coffin’s edge. Julián’s body was dressed in his favorite white shirt, his arms folded neatly across his chest.
He looked pale, but peaceful. Grandmother’s house was crowded with relatives. Some whispered quietly, others sobbed, while children played in the yard, unaware of what was happening.
Still, Camila would not move. Since arriving, she hadn’t wanted to sit or eat. She asked only for a chair so she could be nearer to her father and reach him more easily.
Some thought she was in shock, but her grandmother said to leave her alone, that everyone has their own way of saying goodbye. Her mother, exhausted and swollen-eyed, chose not to argue further. She gave up, saying nothing more.
Time slipped by, the air growing heavier. Night had fallen, and still, the coffin had not yet been taken to the cemetery. The adults began to sense something strange—not with Julián, but with the child.
She no longer spoke. She sat stiffly in the chair, her arms on the coffin, her eyes fixed on her father. People tried to talk to her, but she stayed silent.
No tears. No movement. No reply.
It was as though she were waiting for something. And while no one dared say it aloud, many felt uneasy—her calmness was too strange, as if something were about to happen. That night, no one truly slept.
Some remained outside, murmuring softly; others went in and out of the living room to check. Camila stayed rooted by the coffin. She looked tired, yet refused to lie down or leave.
Her grandmother eventually draped a blanket over her shoulders. No one insisted further. Time dragged until people grew distracted.
Some stepped outside to smoke, others poured coffee in the kitchen, while her mother dozed in a chair, head tilted back and eyes closed. Then Camila climbed onto the chair, placed one knee against the coffin, and slowly slid inside. She moved carefully, as if she had already decided.
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