The mournful sound of funeral trumpets echoed through the narrow alleys, blending with the gentle rain falling on a rusted tin roof. In the center of the courtyard, a gold-painted coffin rested on two wooden benches. Mourners filled the place, all with their heads bowed, weeping for Isela — the sweet and loving daughter-in-law who had died during childbirth.

Isela was only 25 years old. Since marrying into the Ramírez family, she had always been devoted, caring for her in-laws as if they were her own parents. Her mother-in-law, Doña Carmen Ramírez, used to say proudly: “A home with a daughter-in-law like Isela is a blessed home.” But a little over a year after the wedding, tragedy struck.

On that fateful night, Isela writhed in pain, clutching her swollen belly, crying in desperation. By the time they got her to the hospital, it was already too late. The baby never got to let out his first cry. And Isela… never opened her eyes again.

The family was devastated. Carmen collapsed in grief, screaming uncontrollably. Her husband, Don Rogelio, stood frozen, staring at the photo of Isela placed on top of the coffin. In the picture, Isela beamed with a radiant smile, her eyes full of life.

When the time came to move the coffin, eight strong young men stepped forward to carry it to the funeral car. But something was wrong.

Despite their strength, the coffin wouldn’t budge. They strained, grunted, their muscles tense—but the coffin seemed anchored to the ground, as if something invisible was holding it back. An elderly woman among the mourners whispered:

“She still has sorrow… she’s not ready to leave.”

The priest, who was leading the ceremony, spoke softly:

“Open the coffin. She still has something to say.”

With trembling hands, the family unlatched the coffin. As they lifted the lid, gasps were heard among the crowd. Isela’s face, though serene, still glistened with the trace of tears. Her eyes remained closed, but her damp eyelashes spoke of pain… even after death.

Carmen screamed and collapsed beside the coffin, grabbing her daughter-in-law’s cold hand.

“Isela… my child… don’t cry anymore… If there’s something left unsaid, let me know… Forgive us, my dear…”

Silence fell over the courtyard. Then, suddenly, a choked sob cut through the air.

Everyone turned to look at Luis, Isela’s husband. He was kneeling, his face buried in his hands, crying inconsolably.

Carmen turned to him, alarmed, her voice trembling:

“Luis… what is it? Did you hear her?”

Luis lifted his face, soaked in rain and tears. His voice came out as a broken whisper:

“It was my fault… I… I made her suffer…”

The courtyard held its breath. The rain grew heavier, but no one moved. Luis looked at his wife’s tear-streaked face and whispered, shattered:

“That night… she found out about another woman. She didn’t scream, didn’t argue. She just sat there, crying… holding her belly all night. I swore I would end it… that she meant nothing… But Isela was already so hurt. That night, she fainted… I took her to the hospital, but… it was too late…”

“I’m sorry… Isela… I’m so sorry…”

Cries broke out among the mourners. Carmen trembled as she spoke:

“My child… why did you have to suffer so much…? Forgive us for not protecting you…”

Luis leaned over the coffin, gripping the wooden edge tightly, his entire body shaking:

“Isela… I failed you… Hate me if you must. Curse me. But please… forgive me… Let me carry you to your rest…”

Suddenly, the coffin moved slightly—a faint tremor. The priest nodded solemnly:

“She has let go.”

The pallbearers approached once more. This time, as if an invisible weight had lifted, they raised the coffin effortlessly. The funeral trumpets sounded again, their mournful tune piercing through the rain as the procession began.

Luis remained kneeling on the cold, wet tiles, his tears blending with the downpour. In his chest, the echoes of his remorse rang endlessly. No apology, no tears could undo what had been done.

And for the rest of his life, in every dream, in every moment of silence, the image of Isela—with those sorrowful eyes—would haunt him, a reminder that some wounds… do not heal with a simple “I’m sorry.”