The mournful sound of funeral trumpets echoed through the narrow alleys, mingling with the gentle patter of rain on a rusty tin roof. In the center of the courtyard, a coffin painted gold rested on two wooden benches. Mourners filled the room, crestfallen, mourning the death of Anaya—the sweet, loving daughter-in-law who died in childbirth.

Anaya was only 25 years old. Since marrying into the Sharma family, she has done nothing but show devotion, taking care of her in-laws as if they were her own parents. Her mother-in-law, Meera Sharma, said proudly,
“Any home blessed with a daughter-in-law like Anaya is truly lucky.”
But just over a year after the marriage, tragedy struck.

That fateful night, Anaya was writhing in pain, holding his swollen belly, crying inconsolably. When she was finally taken to the hospital, she was already too weak.
The baby never had a chance to give his first cry.
And Anaya… He never opened his eyes again.

The whole family was devastated. Meera collapsed between sobs, crying uncontrollably. Her husband, Rajan, stood motionless and silent, staring at Anaya’s photo on the coffin. In the image, Anaya was smiling with joy, and his eyes shone with life.

When it was time to move the coffin, eight strong young men volunteered to carry it to the hearse. But something wasn’t right.

Despite its strength, the coffin did not move. They strained, growled, their muscles tense… But the coffin remained anchored to the ground—as if something invisible was holding it.
A frail old woman in the crowd murmured:

“She is still in mourning… she’s not ready to leave.”

The priest, who was watching nearby, spoke in a soft voice:

“Open the coffin. He has something left to say.”

With trembling hands, the family removed the coffin lock. As he slowly lifted the lid, a murmur of amazement spread among those present.
Anaya’s face, although serene, still shone with two lines of tears.
Her eyes remained softly closed, but her wet eyelashes told a story of sadness… even in death.

Meera screamed and collapsed next to the coffin, clutching Anaya’s cold hand:

“Anaya… My daughter… Please don’t cry…
If there’s something you couldn’t say, please let us know…
Forgive us, my dear…”

Silence enveloped the wake like a veil.
Suddenly, a muffled sob broke the silence.

Everyone looked.

It was Aryan—Anaya’s young husband, now a widower—kneeling, his face covered in his hands, crying inconsolably.

Meera turned in alarm, her voice trembling:

“Aryan… what’s up…? Did you hear it?”

Aryan lifted his face, flushed, drenched with rain and tears. His voice broke as he spoke:

“It was my fault… I… I caused him pain…”

The courtyard held its breath.
The rain was getting heavier, but no one was moving.

Aryan looked at his wife’s face, still marked by tears, and muttered with a broken soul:

“That night… she found out about the other woman.
She didn’t scream, she didn’t argue. She just sat quietly, crying…
hugging her belly all night.
I promised her I’d be done with everything… I swore it…
but she was already badly injured.
That night, she collapsed… I took her to the hospital, but… it was too late…”

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… Anaya…”

Crying erupted everywhere.
Meera trembled as her voice broke:

“My daughter… why did you have to suffer so much…?
My daughter-in-law… forgive us for failing you…”

Aryan leaned over the coffin, clinging to the wooden edge, his whole body trembling.

“Anaya… I was wrong… Hate me if you wish. Curse me.
But please… please forgive me…
Let me take you to your resting place…”

Suddenly, the coffin moved slightly—
a small, gentle trembling.
The priest nodded solemnly:

“She’s let go.”

The bearers approached once more.
This time, as if an invisible weight had been lifted, they lifted the coffin effortlessly. The funeral trumpets sounded again, their sad melody piercing through the rain as the procession began.

Aryan stood on his knees on the cold, wet tiles, his tears mingling with the rain.
In his heart, the echoes of his apology echoed endlessly.
No wailing, no ocean of tears, could undo what had already happened.

And for the rest of his life, in every dream, in every silence…
the image of Anaya – with his eyes full of pain – would haunt him,
whispering to him that there are wounds… that never heal with a simple “I’m sorry.”