The chapel was heavy with sorrow as mourners gathered to say goodbye to young Emily. Her death had come without warning, leaving a wake of grief and confusion. At the front sat her grandfather, hands clenched, heart aching with more than just sadness — something didn’t sit right.
As the final hymn faded, guests were invited for one last farewell. The old man stood, driven by a quiet urgency he couldn’t explain. Stepping to the coffin, he lifted the lid with trembling hands — and there she was. Peaceful. Still. But then he saw it.
Nestled in the folds of her dress was a small, carved wooden box — one he knew well. It was a family heirloom he’d given Emily, meant to protect her. But now, its sudden reappearance felt like a warning.
He picked it up, catching the faint scent of herbs — something old, ritualistic. His grief sharpened into resolve.
“We’ve been too quick to say goodbye,” he said, turning to the stunned crowd. “Something’s wrong.”
Gasps rippled through the room, but the old man didn’t waver. The box wasn’t just a keepsake. It was a clue.
And as the funeral gave way to confusion and whispers, he knew one thing for certain: this wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of the truth — and he would find it, for Emily.
