“He just left,” Charles replied coolly. “The service is tomorrow morning. If you’re here to clean, you’ll need to wait.”
But Isabel wasn’t looking at him.
She was staring at the casket.
“Sir,” she said slowly, her eyes wide. “I need to tell you something… about your mother.”
Irritation flared in Charles’ chest.
“I don’t think—”
“Please,” Isabel interrupted gently. “I know this sounds impossible. I know you’ll think I’m wrong. But I’ve worked here for twelve years. I’ve seen things most people don’t.”
Charles’ jaw tightened.
“If this is some kind of—”
“Your mother moved.”
The words landed like a gunshot.
“What did you say?”
“I was cleaning the room next door about twenty minutes ago,” Isabel said quickly. “The walls are thin. I heard something—like someone struggling to breathe.”
“That’s impossible,” Charles said flatly. “She passed away two days ago.”
“I know how it sounds,” Isabel replied. Her voice carried a quiet certainty that reminded him, unsettlingly, of his mother. “But please—just look closely.”
Against every instinct, Charles turned toward the casket.
Margaret lay as she had before. Still. Peaceful.
Then he saw it.
The smallest movement.
Her fingers.
They twitched.
Charles’ heart stopped.