The morning of my funeral was quiet.
Even though I could not hear, I could feel it — the stillness in the air, the slow rhythm of footsteps outside, the faint scent of lilies carried by the wind.
I had always imagined death as darkness.
But it wasn't.
It was peace.
They dressed my body in white.
I watched them from somewhere above the room, detached and weightless, as if I were only light and memory.
My husband stood at the edge of the room, his head bowed, guilt hanging on him like a shadow that would never fade.
Beside him, my son clutched a photo to his chest — the one from the mountain, before everything fell apart.
He didn't cry loudly.
He just stood there, trembling, his lips moving soundlessly.
When I looked closer, I could read them.
Goodbye, Mom.
The priest's voice murmured through the air,
soft syllables I could not hear but somehow understood.
People wept.
The Mistress was there too, in the back, her face pale, eyes red.
She held a handkerchief to her mouth like she was trying to hold in a scream.
But I felt nothing toward her anymore.
I had forgiven her long before this moment —
not because she deserved it,
but because I needed to let the pain end with me.
When they lowered my coffin into the ground, the world blurred into white.
The sky opened.
Light poured down like rain.
I thought I would dissolve in it —
but instead, something pulled me forward,
gently, like a tide guiding me home.
Then I heard it.
A cry.
A voice.
Not from the earth, but from somewhere beyond.
I opened my eyes.
Sunlight spilled across the room, soft and golden.
The air smelled of warm milk and lavender.
A child's laughter rippled nearby —
clear, pure, alive.
I blinked, and for a moment I didn't understand.
My hands were small, pale, unscarred.
The walls were painted cream.
There were photographs on the nightstand —
a man smiling, a baby cradled in his arms.
And there, beside me, stood the little girl —
her daughter, my daughter now —
giggling, reaching for me with open arms.
I froze.
Tears welled up, unbidden, falling before I could stop them.
She was beautiful — the kind of beauty untouched by sorrow.
I gathered her close, pressing her tiny body against my heart.
Her warmth seeped through me,
and I realized —
it was mine now.
This life.
This chance.
This love that wasn't meant for me,
but somehow became mine.
From somewhere deep within, a whisper rose —
her voice, soft and steady.
It's yours now.
Live it well.
I looked outside.
The world was glowing.
People were laughing in the distance.
Birds traced the sky in circles of white.
And for the first time since everything began,
I felt weightless.
No chains.
No echoes of screams.
No guilt.
Only life.
I pressed a kiss to the child's forehead.
"Thank you," I whispered, though I wasn't sure to whom —
to the woman who gave me this life,
or to the God who finally let me rest.
Maybe both.
The baby laughed again, a small burst of joy that filled the room.
And in that sound — in that pure, radiant noise —
I finally understood what it meant to be free.
Outside, the light shifted.
It was morning —
the second dawn.
And though the body I left behind slept beneath the earth,
my soul had risen,
alive and loved,
in another world.