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

I looked down at my son. He had stopped screaming, but he was clinging to my leg, his face buried in my trousers, sobbing quietly. He was exhausted, but he wasn’t letting go. He believed. With every fiber of his being, he believed.

I thought back to the hospital. The chaotic blur of two days ago. Elena had collapsed in the kitchen—a sudden, catastrophic fainting spell. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was unresponsive. At the hospital, the chaos was replaced by a terrifying, sterile efficiency.

Dr. Aris Thorne, the attending specialist, had been so sure. So arrogant in his certainty. “Massive aneurysm,” he had said, barely looking me in the eye. “Brain death was instantaneous. Her vitals have ceased. I’m sorry.”

It had all happened so fast. The pronunciation. The paperwork. The transfer to the morgue. The rush to arrange the funeral because the weekend was approaching. Had we moved too fast? Had we been swept along by the conveyor belt of death, too in shock to ask questions?