He was barefoot. His shirt was too thin for the cold morning, his knees scraped, his dark hair falling into his eyes. No one noticed him at first as he slipped through the back door, weaving between guests who were too polite to look closely at a child who did not belong. His eyes were fixed on the coffin as if pulled forward by invisible strings.
When he reached the front, he placed both hands on the polished wood and shouted with a voice too strong for his small body.
“She is not dead. You cannot bury her.”
Gasps rippled through the chapel. A woman dropped her purse. The priest froze mid prayer. Two security guards moved at once, grabbing the boy by the arms, but he fought with surprising strength, his nails scratching, his breath wild.
“She is alive,” he cried again. “I saw her today. She gave me this.”
From his pocket he pulled a silver charm shaped like a small moon, engraved with the letter L. The charm swung between his fingers, catching the light. Gregory Prescott, standing stiff in the front pew, stared at it. He knew that charm. He had given it to his daughter for her sixteenth birthday, chosen by an assistant because he had been in a meeting.