As evening approached, unease crept gradually through the room like an unnoticed draft. Luciana had ceased responding entirely to those who spoke to her, settling into a small wooden chair placed beside the coffin so she could remain close without strain. Her arms folded carefully atop the edge, her chin resting upon her wrists, her gaze never wavering from Benjamin’s face.
“She has not eaten anything all day,” whispered Aunt Penelope, her voice threaded with worry.
“Perhaps she is simply exhausted beyond tears,” replied another relative uncertainly.
Yet the silence surrounding Luciana grew heavier with each passing hour. Children who played noisily in the yard seemed oddly muted whenever they drifted near the living room, their laughter dissolving into whispers as if guided by instinct rather than instruction. Adults began exchanging glances that carried unspoken apprehension, sensing something intangible yet undeniably present.