The bells of St. Michael’s rang low, each chime like a slow heartbeat echoing through ancient stone, settling not just in the room but deep in the

chest of every mourner. Ana stood unmoving, veiled in black, before the altar where Rareș—her husband, her forever—rested

in silence, encased in polished wood and surrounded by white lilies.

Shadows stretched long across the pews, even as stained glass tried to paint the room in color. Incense lingered, mixing with

melted wax and old wood, and the weight of grief made the air thick. Sofia, their two-year-old daughter, whimpered in Ana’s arms,

reaching for the coffin with tear-wet cheeks and confused cries of “Daddy.” The priest began to speak—but was interrupted when

Sofia suddenly stilled. Then, with the clarity of a bell in silence, she whispered, “Daddy says… you don’t have to cry, Mommy.”

Ana froze. The church seemed to exhale in unison as the little girl continued, speaking words too knowing for her age—words of light,

warmth, and love. The moment cracked something open in Ana. When Sofia murmured, “He’s behind me. He’s holding my hand,” Ana turned,

saw nothing, yet felt everything: the brush of fingers she’d known for years, the impossible presence of Rareș at her side.

The cold that had gripped her chest since the accident softened. Not in disbelief—but in recognition. Tears came, not of despair,

but release. Around them, the mourners watched in stunned silence as Ana embraced her daughter with new breath, new hope.

Because in that moment—just for a moment—grief stepped aside, and love, unbroken by death, made itself known.