Grandmother’s living room, usually filled with laughter and the smell of fresh bread, had been transformed into a solemn vigil. The coffin stood at the center, surrounded by flowers that had already begun to wilt under the weight of the candles’ heat. Neighbors whispered in low voices, 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥ren scurried about without understanding, and adults tried to comfort the grieving family.
But the person who drew the most attention was not Julián, the man lying lifeless in his coffin. It was his 8-year-old daughter, Camila.
She had not moved since they arrived from the funeral home. Dressed in a pale pink dress and small shoes scuffed from the playground, she stood on a wooden chair pushed close to the coffin. Her tiny hands rested on the edge, her face lifted toward her father’s still features.
Her mother tried several times to take her away, coaxing her with promises of food or rest, but Camila shook her head. She wanted to stay with him. She needed to.
The wake stretched on, as wakes often do. Coffee was poured and refilled. Plates of bread and cheese were passed around. People came and went, whispering condolences, hugging the widow, exchanging memories of Julián—his laughter, his kindness, his sudden illness that took him too soon.
But Camila remained in place. She refused food. She refused to sit. She asked only for a chair so she could be closer, so she wouldn’t have to stretch to touch the coffin.
Some whispered she was in shock. Others said she didn’t fully understand what death meant. But as the hours ticked by, her silence became unsettling. It wasn’t the silence of confusion, nor the restless silence of a 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 who didn’t understand. It was something heavier, something almost… expectant
By evening, when the house filled with the orange glow of candles, unease spread through the mourners. They began to glance at Camila more than at the coffin.
“It’s not normal,” one aunt muttered.
“She’s too calm,” said another.
“She’s waiting for something,” someone whispered, though no one knew what.
Night fell, but no one slept. Some gathered on the porch, smoking cigarettes under the stars. Others sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee that grew bitter with each reheating. Inside, the grandmother sat quietly, knitting with trembling hands, her eyes flicking often to her granddaughter.
Camila stayed at the coffin. She leaned her arms on the polished wood and rested her chin there, watching her father as though he might open his eyes at any moment.
When her mother begged her again to come and rest, she whispered for the last time that night:
“I want to stay with him.”
