And a strange feeling crept through the room—an unspoken tension, as if the silence itself was holding its breath.
No one slept that night.
People drifted in and out, checking on the child. The grandmother wrapped a blanket around Camila’s shoulders. The mother, exhausted beyond tears, dozed in a chair.
Then—without a sound—Camila climbed higher.
Slowly. Carefully.
As if she had planned it.
By the time anyone noticed, she was already inside the coffin, curled against her father, arms wrapped tightly around him.
A scream shattered the room.
People rushed forward, expecting the worst—fainting, panic, something terrible.
But what they saw stopped them cold.
Julián’s hand rested on Camila’s back.
Not stiff.
Not forced.
But natural—gentle, protective.
As if he were holding her.
Some tried to explain it away. Others froze in terror. One man stepped forward to pull her out, but the grandmother stopped him.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Something is happening.”
Camila was breathing calmly, peacefully—sleeping, as though soothed by her father’s embrace.
The room fell into a silence heavier than grief.
Moonlight spilled through the window, turning the moment unreal, dreamlike.
Then Camila sighed.