Camila was eight years old and was standing next to the coffin, not moving.
They had been at the wake for hours and she hadn’t stepped away for even a second.
Her mother had tried to take her away several times, but she refused to go.
She said she wanted to stay with her dad, and she didn’t cry—she just looked at him in silence.
People came by to offer their condolences, and some looked at her with pity, but she didn’t respond. She just kept standing there, her hands resting on the edge of the coffin.
Julián’s body was dressed in a white shirt he liked, and his arms were crossed over his chest.
He looked pale but calm.
The grandmother’s house was full of people.
Some spoke in low voices, others cried, and the children ran around the patio without really understanding what was happening.
But Camila didn’t move.
Ever since they arrived, she hadn’t wanted to eat or sit down.
She had only asked for a chair so she could reach her father better and stay close to him.
Some thought she was in shock, but the grandmother said to leave her alone, that everyone has their own way of saying goodbye.
The mother didn’t want to argue and ended up agreeing.
Though she looked tired and her eyes were swollen, she didn’t insist any further.
Hours passed, and the atmosphere grew tense.
It was already night and there was still time before they would take the coffin 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, just stayed sitting on the chair with her arms crossed on the edge, staring at her father.
Some tried to talk 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 out loud, many began to feel a kind of uneasiness they couldn’t explain.
As if that calmness in the girl was too strange, as if something was about to happen.
That night no one slept.
Some stayed on the porch speaking in low voices, and others went in and out of the living room to check how things were going.
Camila stayed by the coffin, unmoving.
She looked tired, but she didn’t want to lie down or step away.
So the grandmother brought her a blanket and draped it over her shoulders.
No one insisted anymore.
A long while passed and most people began to get distracted.
Some went out to smoke, others to the kitchen for coffee, and the mother sat in a corner with her head tilted back and her eyes closed.
At that moment, Camila climbed onto the chair, placed a knee on the edge of the coffin, and carefully pulled herself 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, hugging him tightly.
When one of the aunts turned and saw her there, she screamed without thinking and everyone rushed over.
It was chaos.
At first they thought she had fainted or was having some kind of episode, but when they came 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; others started saying the girl had moved it, but it didn’t make sense because the hand wasn’t in a forced position—it was resting naturally, with the arm slightly lifted.
One of the men tried to pull her away, but the grandmother stopped him.
She said they should wait, that something strange was happening.
Camila didn’t move, but she didn’t look unconscious either…
The room fell silent, as if everyone had forgotten how to breathe.
The mother approached slowly, trembling, unsure whether she should touch her daughter or run away.
The grandmother, however, stood firm, her eyes fixed on the coffin, murmuring something no one could hear.
“Camila…” whispered one of the uncles, voice breaking.
The girl opened her eyes.
She didn’t sit up or move away from the body, she only turned her head slightly toward them. Her expression remained inexplicably calm.
“Almost,” she said softly, as if explaining something obvious.
The mother stepped closer.
“Almost what, sweetheart?”
Camila looked back at her father.
“He told me he didn’t want to go alone.”
The air froze.
Some people stepped back; others began whispering prayers.
The mother shook her head again and again, as if trying to erase what she had just heard.
“Cami, honey… your dad didn’t talk to you. He can’t…” she tried to say.
But then Julián’s body moved again.
It wasn’t a spasm or a shift in weight.
The arm resting on Camila’s back tightened slightly, with an almost human gentleness, and his head turned just a little—enough for those closest to see that his face had changed.
It was no longer the stillness of a corpse: it was something that imitated life… or remembered it.
The mother screamed and tried to climb onto the chair, but the grandmother stopped her with surprising strength.
“Leave her,” she ordered. “He’s not hurting her.”
“He’s dead, Mom!” the woman sobbed.
The grandmother shook her head slowly.
“No. Not completely.”
The lights flickered and a cold wind swept through the room, even though all the windows were closed.
People ran to the patio, stumbling over each other. Some fell, others prayed out loud.
Those who stayed behind watched, paralyzed.
Camila sighed, like someone getting comfortable to sleep.
“It’s done,” she murmured, in a voice that sounded different—deeper, more… foreign.
Julián’s body relaxed, the hand fell back to where it had been before, motionless, truly dead this time.
The girl, however, opened her eyes wide and slowly sat up.
She was smiling.
She jumped out of the coffin with an odd lightness and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders as if nothing had happened.
She walked up to her mother, who was still crying uncontrollably, and took her hand.
“I’m sleepy,” she said. “I want to go home.”
The mother hugged her, trembling, not understanding, not daring to ask, while the grandmother watched with wide eyes and an expression that wasn’t fear… but recognition.
“Let’s go,” the old woman said. “She’s already said goodbye.”
And as they left the room, those who stayed behind swore that for a second, Julián’s body had smiled inside the coffin.