As we left the grave, my son screamed, “Mom is cold! I felt her hand!” My sister hissed, “Stop this embarrassment, she’s gone,” trying to drag him away. I ignored her and grabbed a shovel. I dug until my hands bled. When the lid finally popped open, the crowd froze in horror. My wife’s eyes were wide open, and the desperate scratches on the inside of the lid revealed a truth that made the police arrest my sister instantly

Click. The first clasp undid.

Click. The second.

The silence in the cemetery was absolute. Even the wind seemed to die down. The birds stopped singing. It felt as if the entire universe was holding its breath, waiting for the verdict.

I looked at Noah. He nodded, a single, solemn motion.

I gripped the heavy lid. It felt like lead. It felt like the weight of the entire world.

I lifted.

The lid groaned on its hinges, a sound that seemed to tear through the fabric of the afternoon.

When the coffin was fully opened, the crowd froze. A collective intake of breath sucked the air out of the immediate vicinity.

My wife lay there, exactly as she had been placed by the morticians. Her hands were clasped over her chest, holding a single white rose. Her hair was fanned out on the satin pillow. She was pale—marble white. Her lips were tinted with a makeup that didn’t quite match her skin tone.