The daughter-in-law died in childbirth — Eight men were unable to lift the coffin, and when the mother-in-law demanded to open it…

“Daughter… why did you have to suffer so much…? Forgive us for not protecting you…”

Luis leaned over the coffin, gripping the wooden edge tightly, his whole body trembling:

“Isela… I know I failed… Hate me if you have to. Curse me. But please… forgive me… Let me take you to your rest…”

Suddenly, the coffin moved slightly—a slight trembling. The priest nodded solemnly:

“She’s let go.”

The porters approached again. This time, as if an invisible weight had gone, they lifted the coffin effortlessly. The funeral trumpets sounded again, their wailing piercing through the rain as the procession began.

Luis remained kneeling on the cold, wet flagstones, his tears mingling with the downpour. In his chest, the echoes of his regret echoed endlessly. No forgiveness, no tears could undo what has been done.

And for the rest of his life, in every dream, in every moment of silence, the image of Isela—with sad eyes—would haunt him, reminding him that some wounds… They don’t heal with a simple “I’m sorry.”