It was time to carry her to her final rest.
Eight strong young men stepped forward to lift the coffin. They surrounded it, bracing themselves, and bent down to lift. But nothing happened.
They tried again. Still nothing. The gold-painted box didn’t move an inch.
The men looked at each other, confused, then bent again—straining, red-faced, their muscles flexing with effort. But the coffin felt like it was rooted to the ground.
A murmur rippled through the mourners. Whispers spread like wildfire. An elderly neighbor shook his head and sighed. “She’s not ready,” he said softly. “Her soul is still here. She’s not done yet.”
The shaman, who had been quietly standing near the canopy, walked forward. He placed his palm on the coffin and murmured something under his breath. Then he raised his voice just enough for everyone to hear.
“Open the casket,” he said. “She still has something to say.”
Helen gasped. “No… no, we can’t…” But something deep inside her stirred. A mother’s instinct. A mother-in-law’s love.
With trembling hands, she approached the coffin. “Open it,” she said, her voice cracking. “Please. If she has something left to say… we must hear it.”
