But when he whispered something I had never told another soul, the blood drained from my face.
And I knew I was about to confront a truth none of us were ready for.
The chapel was steeped in that heavy, suffocating quiet that only grief can create. White roses framed the coffin. Incense clung to my skin and clothes. I had cried until I felt hollowed out, as if there was nothing left inside me.
My daughter was nine.
Nine years of scraped knees, whispered goodnights, laughter filling the halls—now reduced to a polished wooden box I was meant to say goodbye to forever.
I laid my palm flat against the coffin, desperate to feel something. Anything at all.
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