The bells of St. Michael’s rang low, each chime like a slow heartbeat echoing through the ancient stone of the church. It was the kind of sound that didn’t just fill a room—it settled into your skin, your bones, your chest. A sound you didn’t just hear, but felt. Ana stood at the front of the church, her feet heavy, unmoving. Everything around her seemed soaked in a shadow too thick for the sun to pierce. The stained-glass windows scattered soft colors across the pews and floor, but even those rays felt muted, subdued—like they, too, were in mourning. The sweet scent of incense lingered in the air, thick and relentless, mingling with the aged smell of old wood and melted candlewax. Beneath her black veil, Ana’s face was hollow. Her eyes—once lively and full of fire—were now rimmed with shadows, fixed on the single point that consumed her entire world. The coffin. It rested at the front of the altar, surrounded by white lilies and velvet cloth, heavy and still like the final punctuation at the end of a sentence that came too soon. Rareș. Her husband. Her partner. Her forever—now a memory trapped in polished wood. Beside her, squirming in her arms, was Sofia—their two-year-old daughter. The child’s cheeks were flushed, her nose red and wet from crying, though she didn’t fully understand why. She only knew that something was terribly wrong. That the man she called “Daddy” wasn’t smiling anymore. That people in black had filled their home. That no one had laughed in days. That her mother didn’t smell like lavender and bread anymore, but like tears and silence. Sofia reached a tiny hand toward the coffin, her sobs turning into breathless cries. “Daddy! Daddy!” Ana clutched her tighter, trying to hush her with kisses and murmurs, but her own throat was raw—too raw for words to sound soft. The crowd murmured quietly behind them. Family. Friends. Strangers, even. Some stared in pity. Others bowed their heads. But no one knew what to say. What could you say to a young widow holding a fatherless child?