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.
No one noticed until she was lying against her father’s body, holding him tightly.
When an aunt turned and saw her, she screamed, and the entire room rushed forward.
Chaos erupted.
At first, they thought she had fainted or collapsed, but as they came closer, what they saw left them speechless.
Julián’s hand rested on Camila’s back, as if he were hugging her.
Some froze in shock, others whispered she must have moved it—but the arm looked natural, gently lifted, the hand resting softly.
One of the men tried to take her away, but her grandmother stopped him.
She insisted they wait—that something unusual was happening.
Camila lay still, but she was not unconscious.
Her breathing was steady and calm, as if she were sleeping peacefully in her father’s arms.
Julián’s hand—the same one that had held hers on countless walks—was now cradling her once more.
It looked protective, like a farewell beyond understanding.
The aunt who had screamed broke down in sobs—not from fear, but from unbearable tenderness.
Her mother, paralyzed with grief, sat upright, eyes wide with horror and wonder.
The house grew silent.
No whispers. No cries. No children’s laughter.
Only the sight of the girl in the coffin, embraced by her father.
The air grew thick, charged with something no one could explain.
Grandmother, steady as ever, knelt by the coffin and stroked her granddaughter’s hair.
“Let her be,” she whispered shakily. “It’s all right.”
No one dared to object.
The moment felt sacred, beyond comprehension.
Minutes stretched like eternity.
Moonlight poured through the window, casting a pale glow that blurred the line between dream and reality.
Then Camila released a deep sigh.
Her father’s hand slipped away, falling back onto his chest.
Camila slowly opened her eyes, as if waking from a long sleep.
Her gaze found her mother, who trembled in despair.
Her grandmother helped her out of the coffin, and she walked straight into her mother’s arms.
She hugged her tightly, sending chills down her mother’s spine.
In that embrace, sorrow gave way to a quiet peace.
“It’s okay, Mommy,” Camila whispered softly. “Daddy’s asleep, but he told me not to worry—he’ll stay with me always.”
And finally, she wept.
She cried with all the grief and pain she had been holding back.
She cried for love, for loss, for goodbye.
Her mother clutched her, unwilling to let go, while those around felt the heavy air lift, as though a hidden burden had vanished.
The farewell, at last, had come.
