Hours had passed, but she hadn’t moved an inch. While others came and went, whispered condolences, or wiped away tears, Camila remained there, silent and motionless, her small hands resting on the cold wooden edge.

Her mother tried again and again to take her away. Each time, Camila gently refused.

She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t trembling.
She was simply watching him.

Julian lay inside the coffin, dressed in the white shirt he loved most, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was pale, serene, too serene.

The house was overflowing with mourners. Muffled murmurs filled the rooms. Some wept openly. Children ran around the yard, oblivious to the weight that rested on the adults.

But Camila didn’t move.

He didn’t want to eat.
He didn’t want to sit down, until he asked for a chair, just so he could be closer to his father.

Some whispered that the girl was in shock. Others felt uneasy. But the grandmother silenced them all.

“Everyone says goodbye in their own way,” he said.

As night fell, something changed.

Camila stopped responding completely. She remained motionless, her arms crossed over the coffin, staring as if waiting for something only she could perceive. Not a tear. Not a word.

Only stillness.

And a strange feeling spread through the room: a tacit tension, as if the silence itself were holding its breath.

Nobody slept that night.

People came and went, worried about the little girl. The grandmother put a blanket over Camila’s shoulders. The mother, exhausted and in tears, nodded off in a chair.

Then, without making a sound, Camila climbed higher.

Slowly. Carefully.
As if I had planned it.

By the time anyone noticed, she was already inside the coffin, curled up next to her father, her arms tightly wrapped around him.

A scream tore through the room.

People rushed forward, expecting the worst: fainting, panic, something terrible.

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But what they saw left them frozen.

Julian’s hand rested on Camila’s back.