The room smelled faintly of lilies and candle wax. A hush lay over everything, broken only by muffled sobs and the slow creak of chairs as people shifted in their seats.
In the center of the room stood the coffin — gleaming white, draped in soft folds of satin. Inside lay a young woman who, not long ago, had been the life of every gathering. Her hair, chestnut brown and still silky, framed a face that looked more like someone in a deep, peaceful sleep than someone gone forever.
Her name was Sophie Bennett. Twenty-four years old. Bright, witty, endlessly kind. Just a week earlier, she had been laughing in the kitchen with her mother, making tea and teasing her father about his endless crossword puzzles. Then came the sudden fever, the headaches, the strange weakness in her limbs. The doctors said it was acute brain inflammation — rare, aggressive, and relentless. One moment she was talking; hours later she was unconscious. Resuscitation attempts failed.
Her father, Richard, still couldn’t wrap his head around it. He stood stiffly near the corner, gripping a folded handkerchief in both hands, as though the act of holding it could keep him from falling apart completely. His wife, Margaret, however… she had collapsed against the coffin minutes ago and had barely moved since. Her sobs echoed off the white walls, raw and unrestrained.
“Take me with her!” Margaret choked out, her voice cracking.
Her hands clutched the coffin edge so tightly that her knuckles were bone-white. “I can’t… I can’t live without my girl. Bury me next to her. Please… just bury me with her.”
Richard’s arms wrapped around her from behind, trembling as much as hers. “Margaret… please. Don’t say that,” he whispered.
Relatives shuffled uncomfortably, tears streaming freely. Sophie’s childhood friend Lydia pressed a tissue to her mouth, as if trying to hold back a cry. Somewhere in the back, an elderly aunt crossed herself, murmuring prayers under her breath.
No one knew what to say. The grief in the air was thick — the kind that presses on your chest, making it hard to breathe.
Margaret, her cheeks wet and flushed, leaned forward to kiss her daughter’s forehead one last time. Her lips brushed against skin that was cool… but not as cold as she remembered.
She frowned, pulling back just slightly. A strange unease prickled at her senses. Sophie’s chestnut lashes, delicate against her pale skin, seemed to flutter for just an instant.
No… that’s impossible, Margaret told herself.
Her mind was probably playing cruel tricks on her. Still, she leaned closer, her eyes narrowing.
