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.”
