Street boy breaks open millionaire’s daughter’s coffin and shouts: “She didn’t d.i.e!”

The morning sky over Brighton Harbor was the color of dull silver, the kind that made everything look heavier than it was. The chapel on Bayview Street stood tall and white, its doors open wide to receive guests dressed in black, their whispers weaving together like thin threads of sympathy. Inside, a polished oak coffin rested before the altar, surrounded by roses that filled the air with sweetness so strong it almost felt like it could hide sorrow itself.

Inside that coffin, everyone believed, lay sixteen year old Lillian Prescott, daughter of real estate tycoon Gregory Prescott. The city had known her name from magazine spreads and charity galas, the smiling girl beside a powerful father. Now the city gathered to say farewell. The priest spoke softly about brief lives and divine mysteries. The organ sighed low notes that vibrated through the marble floor. Everything was as it should be for the farewell of a wealthy family.

Until the boy appeared.