The cathedral glowed with a soft candlelight, and the silence inside was absolute. Preston Aldridge sat in the front row, his face etched with grief, as the choir murmured their final notes. It was a father’s farewell to his only daughter—a service no father ever wants to attend. That silence shattered when the heavy doors burst open and a thin boy, his clothes stained with dirt, stumbled inside.
She ran straight down the center aisle. Her voice cracked as she shouted, each word trembling with urgency.
Stop the burial. Your daughter is alive.
A wave of whispers swept through the crowd. Some guests recoiled; others glared at him as if he’d come to disrupt the proceedings out of sheer chaos. Preston just stared, his breath caught in his chest. The boy reached the coffin and fell to his knees, his palms flat on the polished wood.
“My name is Jace Rowley,” he said. His breathing was ragged. “I know what happened to Talia. I saw the truth. She’s not gone.”
