Eight-year-old Sophie Miller stood perfectly still by the casket, her small hand resting on her father’s arm. Her stillness was unsettling. They had been at the viewing for hours, and the little girl hadn’t budged for a single moment.
Her mother, Sarah, had tried several times to lead her away, but Sophie wouldn’t go. “I want to stay with Dad,” she’d said softly, not crying, just looking at him. People would come by, offer their condolences, and some would look at her with such pity.
She paid them no mind, her palms flat on the polished wooden rim. Andrew Miller was wearing his favorite white shirt, his hands folded peacefully. He looked pale, but at rest.
Grandma Helen’s house was filled to the brim with people. Some spoke in hushed tones, others wept quietly, and a few children ran around the backyard, not fully grasping what had happened. But Sophie remained a fixed point in the center of it all.
Ever since they arrived, she hadn’t touched any food or even sat down. She had only asked for a chair so she could be closer to her father. Some whispered that she was in shock, but Grandma Helen told them to leave her be. “Everyone has their own way of saying goodbye,” she insisted.
Her mother, her eyes red and swollen from crying, didn’t argue. She finally nodded and let her stay. The hours ticked by, and a heavy tension settled over the room.
By nightfall, with the funeral service just hours away, the adults began to sense that something unusual was happening, and it centered on the girl. Her behavior had become even more strange. She had stopped speaking entirely, sitting on her chair with her arms crossed on the edge of the casket, her eyes locked on her father.
A few relatives tried to speak to her, but she offered no reply. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move. It was as if she was waiting for something. And though no one said it out loud, a strange, unexplainable anxiety began to creep into the room.
The girl’s calm was simply too unnatural. It felt like a held breath, like something inevitable was about to happen. The atmosphere in the old house was thick; the wooden floors creaked underfoot, and the dim light from a single lamp cast long, dancing shadows on the walls. The candles arranged around the casket flickered, dipping low before flaring up again.
Aunt Anna, Andrew’s sister, approached Sophie several times with a small plate. “Sweetie, won’t you eat just a little?” she asked kindly. But the girl just shook her head, never once taking her eyes off her father…
