The coffin is too small. That's the first thing I notice. Not the flowers. Not the people. Not the pastor reading words like he's memorized pain and spit it out in clichés. Just the box. Closed. Plain. Wood-grained like that makes it softer. It doesn't. I sit in the front row, knees locked, hands folded like I care what happens next. Mom hasn't blinked in twenty minutes. Her mouth keeps twitching, like she's trying to speak through shock. Like if she says something-anything-it might bring him back. It won't.
Bitte wählen Sie Ihr Anliegen aus.
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