A Silent Presence…

A little girl hugged her father in the eerie coffin.

Camila was 8 years old and stood beside the coffin without moving. They had been at the wake for hours, and she hadn’t stepped away for even a second.

Her mother had tried several times to take her away, but she refused to go.

She said she wanted to stay with her father and didn’t cry—she only looked at him in silence. People passed by to offer their condolences, and some looked at her with pity, but she didn’t respond. She just stood there, hands resting on the edge of the coffin.

Julián’s body was dressed in a white shirt he liked, his arms crossed over his chest.

He looked pale, but peaceful.

Grandmother’s house was full of people.

Some spoke in low voices, others cried, and the children ran around the yard without really understanding what was going on.

But Camila didn’t move.

Since they had arrived, she hadn’t wanted to eat or sit down.

She only asked for a chair so she could reach her father better and be close to him.

Some thought she was in shock, but Grandmother said to let her be—that everyone has their own way of saying goodbye.

Her mother didn’t want to argue and ended up agreeing.

Although she looked tired and her eyes were swollen, she didn’t insist anymore.

Hours passed, and the atmosphere became more tense.

It was already night, and there was still time before the coffin would be taken to the cemetery.

The adults began to notice that something wasn’t right—not with the body, but with the girl.

She had stopped speaking and just sat in the chair with her arms crossed on the edge of the coffin, staring intently at her father.

Some tried talking to her, but she didn’t answer.

She didn’t cry or make any expression.

It was as if she were waiting for something.

And although no one said it aloud, many began to feel a certain unease they couldn’t explain.

As if the girl’s calmness was too strange, as if something were about to happen.

That night, no one slept.

Some stayed on the porch speaking in hushed tones, while others went in and out of the living room to check how things were.

Camila remained beside the coffin without moving.

She seemed tired, but didn’t want to lie down or go away.

Then Grandmother brought her a blanket and placed it over her shoulders.

No one insisted any further.

A long while passed, and most people began to get distracted.

Some went outside to smoke, others went to the kitchen for coffee, and her mother sat in a corner with her head leaning back and her eyes closed.

At that moment, Camila climbed onto the chair, placed one knee on the edge of the coffin, and carefully climbed up.

She did it slowly, as if she had already thought it through.

No one noticed until she was already inside, lying on top of her father’s body, holding him tightly.

When one of the aunts turned and saw her there, she screamed without thinking, and everyone came running.

It was chaos.

At first, they thought she had fainted or was having a breakdown, but when they got closer, they saw something that left them speechless.

Julián’s hand was resting on Camila’s back, as if he were hugging her too.

Some froze, while others started saying that the girl must have moved him—but it made no sense, because the hand wasn’t in a forced position; it rested there naturally, with the arm slightly lifted.

One of the men tried to pull her away, but Grandmother stopped him.

She said to wait—that something strange was happening.

Camila didn’t move, but she didn’t seem unconscious either.

Her breathing was soft and steady, as if she were peacefully asleep, cradled by the cold embrace of her father.

Julián’s hand, the same one that had held hers so many times during walks in the park, now rested on her back. It was a gesture of protection— a farewell that defied all logic.

The aunt who had screamed began to cry, not out of fear, but from a deep and painful tenderness.

The mother, who had been in a state of lethargy, suddenly sat up, her eyes filled with a mixture of horror and astonishment.

Silence took over the room—a silence far heavier and denser than before.

There were no whispers, no crying, no sounds of children. Every eye was fixed on the coffin—on the sleeping girl and the father who, somehow, was comforting her.

The air felt thick, charged with an energy no one could understand.

Grandmother, the only one who seemed calm, knelt beside the coffin and gently stroked her granddaughter’s hair.

“Let her be,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s alright.”

No one dared to contradict her. The scene was too sacred, too inexplicable.

The minutes stretched into an eternity. Moonlight streamed through the window, bathing the room in a ghostly glow that made everything feel like a dream.

Suddenly, Camila let out a long, deep sigh. Her father’s hand slowly slid from her back and returned to its original position, resting on his chest.

Camila opened her eyes. She looked around as if waking from a very long dream.

Her gaze met her mother’s, who was staring at her in desperation.

Camila rose from the coffin, with her grandmother’s help, and walked toward her mother. She hugged her so tightly that her mother shivered.

In that embrace, there wasn’t the weight of grief but a peace and calm that filled her mother’s heart.

“It’s okay, Mommy,” Camila whispered in her ear. “Daddy went to sleep, but he told me not to worry—that he’ll always be with me.”

And after saying that, at last, she cried.

She cried with all the pain and sadness she had been holding back for hours.

She cried for the loss, for the love, for the goodbye.

And her mother held her tight, without letting go, while everyone else in the room felt the air grow a little lighter, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from their shoulders.

The farewell had finally come.