Camila lay nestled against her father’s still body, her small form enveloped in the quiet shroud of the night. The room was heavy with the mingling scents of incense and the faint aroma of flowers wilting in their vases, a floral garland framing the somber atmosphere with a bittersweet perfume. The adults stood in a silent ring around the coffin, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and a creeping unease that whispered through the room like a draft.
The grandmother’s voice, though firm, was gentle as she addressed those around her. “Let the child be,” she implored softly, her eyes glistening with a wisdom that seemed to transcend the moment. “There are things we do not understand,” she added, her words hanging in the air like the lingering smoke from the candles.
