For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, under the gray skies, with all eyes watching, the coffin trembled—just slightly.
The shaman nodded solemnly. “She has let go.”
The eight young men approached again. This time, when they lifted, the coffin rose easily—almost gently—into the air.
It was light as air.
The mournful trumpet resumed its tune, and slowly, the procession moved toward the road. Mourners bowed their heads low, parting silently as Elena was carried out.
Louis remained behind, still on his knees, tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. All he could do was whisper her name again and again, hoping that somewhere, her spirit could hear.
In the years that followed, Louis never remarried. He gave away all his possessions except the little house where they had once lived together. He converted Elena’s old room into a memorial—filling it with her photos, her journals, her favorite flowers.
Every year, on the anniversary of her passing, he would kneel at her grave, whispering apologies, bringing sunflowers—her favorite. Sometimes he swore he felt the breeze brush against his face like her fingers once did.
Helen, too, changed. Once a proud matriarch, she became softer, quieter. She joined a support group for grieving parents and spent her days helping new mothers in need—offering a warm meal, an open heart, or just a quiet place to cry.
Neither of them ever forgot the woman who had brought light into their lives.
And every time it rained, they both looked to the sky, wondering if Elena was crying again—or perhaps letting go, one tear at a time.
