Lena's chest ached with every shallow breath. Cold wood pressed against her back, tight and unyielding, making every movement a risk. The soft murmur of voices floated down from above, punctuated by muffled sobs and the occasional shuffle of shoes on polished floors.
She had thought the world had ended for her. That everyone had believed she was gone. And yet, somehow, she was still here, trapped in darkness, alive but powerless.
Every sound carried meaning. The pastor's monotone voice echoed through the chapel, carrying words she could not fully catch. She strained to listen, catching fragments—"beloved," "eternal rest," "in God's hands"—but none explained why she was here, alive and hidden.
A sudden shift of movement above made her flinch. Footsteps. A pause. A quiet whisper. Lena's heart skipped. She could hear the subtle rhythm of someone walking carefully around the coffin, lingering near the front. There was a warmth in the tone, a reverence she couldn't place. Her pulse quickened—some instinct told her this person mattered more than the rest.
Time dragged. Minutes felt like hours. Every breath she took, every heartbeat, seemed impossibly loud in the silence of the coffin. She wanted to move, to stretch, to see, to scream—but even the slightest sound could give her away.
The murmurs, the sobs, the quiet prayers—it all pressed on her mind, weaving confusion and fear. She had no answers, no clarity. Who had put her here? Why? And—most of all—what would happen if someone discovered she was alive?
For now, she had nothing but silence, shadows, and the unbearable closeness of the coffin walls. And in that darkness, one thought kept repeating:
She had survived. And when she stepped out of this coffin… she would finally find the truth.