Our son's eyes were tightly closed. His once-rosy face was the color of bruised marble—pale, blue, and purple. His body was a map of agony, raw flesh and charred skin. The chemical sting of formalin burned in the air.
"No... this is impossible." Leon's voice trembled, cracking under the weight of reality. He had never imagined the injuries were this severe.
"It's a prank, right? You two are playing a trick on me." He reached in, shaking the small shoulders. "Get up, David. Okay, you got me. Dad is scared. That's enough now..."
He pushed David, calling his name, begging for a reaction.
But the rigid, icy stillness under his fingertips told him the truth. The boy in front of him was meat and bone, void of life.
"No... no... David—"
Leon staggered back, his legs giving out. He hit the floor hard, his voice ragged with horror. "This isn't real... how could it be like this? My David..."
Watching him, I felt no vindication. No pleasure of revenge.
Only a vast, hollow ache.
I pulled myself up and walked slowly to the coffin, my voice numb.
"Do you believe me now, Leon?"