A sudden downpour hammered the tin roof while solemn funeral horns echoed through the small yard. In the center, a golden coffin rested on two wooden benches under a somber, overcast sky. Inside lay Elena, just 25 years old—the cherished daughter-in-law who had died while giving birth. Friends, family, and neighbors gathered, heads bowed in shared sorrow.
Since the day she married into the family, Elena had shown nothing but love and selflessness—tending to her husband’s parents with the devotion of a daughter. Her mother-in-law, Mrs. Helen, often said Elena was a true gift to their lives. But tragedy struck not long after the wedding. One night, Elena was overtaken by intense abdominal pain. She was rushed to the hospital, gave birth—but never regained consciousness. The baby never cried. Both slipped away, leaving silence in their wake.
At the burial site, Mrs. Helen wept uncontrollably, and Elena’s husband, Louis, stood frozen, staring at a framed photo of Elena—her eyes alive with light, her smile full of hope. Then came the moment to lower the coffin. Eight strong men gathered around it—but when they tried to lift it, the coffin wouldn’t budge. They strained again, faces red with effort, but it seemed anchored to the earth. A neighbor murmured, “Her spirit hasn’t moved on. She still has something to say.”
An old shaman approached quietly. “She cannot leave with unsaid words,” he said. “Open the casket.”
With shaking fingers, someone undid the latch.
Inside, Elena’s face was serene, but unmistakably tear-streaked. Her eyes were slightly open, lashes wet. It was as if her soul had paused, lingering on the threshold. Mrs. Helen fell beside her, gripping her cold hand. “Speak, my child,” she cried. “Tell us what pain you carry.”
A thick silence followed—until Louis collapsed to his knees. “It’s my fault,” he confessed, choking on his tears. “I broke her heart.” He admitted that, just days before the birth, he had told Elena he’d fallen for another woman and intended to leave her. Devastated, Elena had endured the delivery alone, her grief unspoken. By the time Louis returned, it was already too late.
The rain grew heavier, mirroring the weight of the moment. Mrs. Helen’s voice wavered, “Why did you carry this alone?” Louis pressed his forehead to the coffin, his sobs lost in the storm. “I was wrong. So wrong. Please… forgive me. Let me walk beside you one last time.”
Then, as if released by those words, the coffin trembled—then finally lifted, effortlessly, into the bearers’ arms.
The funeral music resumed. Elena was on her way to rest.
Louis remained kneeling in the mud, grief carved deep into every breath.