Something clicked in Samuel’s memory. Clara had a small crescent-shaped scar on her left shoulder—a mark only he would recognize.
Without hesitation, Samuel turned to the funeral director.
“Open the coffin. Now.”
The man protested, but Samuel’s voice thundered through the hall. “Open it!”
The lid creaked. A hush fell over the mourners.
And then—someone gasped.
Clara’s chest moved. Faint, but undeniable.
Paramedics rushed forward. Samuel dropped to his knees, taking his daughter’s cold hand in his.
“Clara… stay with me, sweetheart,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face.
