At the Wake
For hours, Camila never left her father’s side. She refused to step away, even when her mother tried to lead her out of the room.
She insisted on staying close to him. She didn’t cry — she only stared at him in silence.
People came to pay their respects, whispering condolences, some pitying the girl, but she gave no response. Her hands remained on the edge of the coffin the whole time.
Julian’s body lay dressed in the white shirt he had always loved, his hands folded across his chest. His face looked pale, yet calm.
The grandmother’s house was filled with people. Some whispered in corners, others wept quietly. Children played in the yard, too young to understand. But Camila never moved.
From the moment she arrived, she had refused to eat or sit. All she asked for was a chair, just close enough to reach her father.
Many thought the girl was in shock, but her grandmother said softly:
— Let her be. Everyone says goodbye in their own way.
Her mother, exhausted and broken, agreed. Her swollen eyes showed she had no strength left to argue.
Hours passed. The atmosphere grew heavier.
Night fell, and still the coffin had not been taken to the cemetery. By then the adults realized — the delay was not for the body. It was for the child.
Camila had stopped speaking. She sat still, her hands on the coffin, watching her father as though waiting for something.
When the night deepened, no one slept. Some gathered on the veranda, whispering. Others checked on the girl. She was still there, unmoving. Her grandmother placed a blanket over her shoulders.
Time stretched until, while people were distracted — someone smoking, another drinking coffee, her mother dozing in a chair — Camila quietly stood on her chair. Slowly, carefully, she climbed into the coffin.
No one noticed until she was already inside, lying against her father’s body, her arms wrapped tightly around him.
A cry rang out when her aunt turned and saw her. Panic spread through the house.
At first they thought she had fainted. But when they drew closer, everyone froze.
Julian’s hand rested on Camila’s back. As if he was holding her in return.
Some whispered that she must have moved it herself. Yet the hand lay so naturally, slightly raised, almost alive.
One man stepped forward to lift her out, but the grandmother stopped him:
— Wait. Something extraordinary is happening.
Camila did not move, but she was breathing calmly, as if asleep in her father’s arms. His palm — the same that had once guided her on childhood walks — now covered her back with gentle protection.
The first screams of fear turned into sobs of unbearable tenderness. Her mother rose, trembling between horror and hope.
Silence fell over the house. No weeping, no whispers, no voices of children — only the girl in the coffin, embraced by her father. The air grew heavy, filled with something sacred, impossible to explain.
The grandmother stepped closer, stroked her granddaughter’s hair, and whispered:
— It’s all right. Let it be.
No one objected. The moment felt holy.
Minutes passed like eternity. Moonlight spilled into the room, erasing the line between dream and reality.
And then Camila drew a deep breath. Julian’s hand slipped back onto his chest.
The girl opened her eyes as though waking from a long dream. She looked around until her gaze found her mother, who shook with despair and hope.
The grandmother helped her climb out of the coffin. Instantly, she ran into her mother’s arms and clung to her tightly.
In that embrace, the weight of grief softened into quiet peace.
— It’s all right, Mama, — Camila whispered. — Papa is sleeping… but he said he’ll always be with me.
Only then did she weep. Not the silent stillness of before, but the raw tears of love, loss, and farewell.
Her mother held her, not letting go, while the heaviness in the room seemed to lift — as though the burden had finally been released.
The farewell had taken place.
