At my father’s wake, my eight-year-old sister Lily stood silently by his coffin, unmoving, uncrying—just waiting, as if he might breathe again.

I will never forget the night of my father’s wake because of what my eight-year-old sister did when everyone believed the grief was ended, not because of the flowers, the tears, or the hush that pervaded the entire space.

Her name is Lily, and she had always been the reserved child, the type that listened even when she pretended not to, and who preferred to watch rather than talk.

However, something in her changed following Dad’s accident. It wasn’t the kind of anguish that was loud. She seemed to be hearing something that the rest of us couldn’t, and it was still, almost uncanny.

The Wake
The wake was held in the tiny funeral home across the street from our house; it was a white structure with worn carpets and an excessive amount of flowers. The perfume of wax and flowers, which lingers to your clothing long after you’ve left, permeated the air.

In the center of the room, encircled by candles, was Dad’s casket. His expression was serene, almost too serene, as if the fear that had filled his eyes had been covered with a layer of calm.

Lily remained by his side the entire time.

She refrained from crying. She remained still. She merely gazed.

She was “in shock,” the grownups mumbled behind their hands, adding that kids “don’t understand death.” However, they were mistaken. None of us knew it as well as Lily did. She was looking at it.

Mom gently informed her that it was time to head home as the ceremony came to a conclusion and people began to depart. Lily remained silent. She continued to stare at Dad while she traced the coffin’s edge with her fingers as if she was learning it by heart.

She had to be lifted away by two family members. She didn’t yell. She didn’t argue. Her gaze remained on his as she simply let them take her.

I didn’t think the evening would be typical until that point.

The Uncomfortable House
Every room in the house was silent. Even though she was no longer crying, Mom continued to wipe her eyes. Rebecca, my stepmother, poured herself a drink of water and gazed out the window without saying much.

Although she had only been with us for three years, in the months leading up to his passing, things with Dad had become more difficult.

They frequently quarreled in quiet tones behind closed doors, resulting in smashed plates or slammed drawers. Dad used to murmur things like “I’ll handle it soon” or “this can’t go on.”

I was mature enough at sixteen to identify anxiety in a man’s voice, particularly my father’s.

Mom stayed in the guest room that night so she wouldn’t be alone. Rebecca was the first to go upstairs. Anticipating that Lily would crawl into her own bed, I assisted her in changing into her pajamas. However, she climbed into my instead.

She remained silent.

Clinging to the picture of Dad from the wake, she lay rigid beneath the blanket. Her little hand clutched it till her knuckles were white.

“Lily,” I said in a whisper. “It’s acceptable to cry.”

No response. Not a single blink. Only the steady, slow, and strange sound of her breathing.

I must have fallen asleep after midnight because the bed next to me was empty when I woke up.

The Bed Is Empty
There was a light on beneath her door.

I opened it. empty.

Then I noticed the downstairs front door, which was ajar a little. The scent of damp grass wafted into the room from the chilly night air.

My heart began to race. I didn’t even pause to pick up my shoes.

I hurried across the street to the funeral home, the gravel crunching beneath my bare feet. With the exception of a slight internal illumination, the building was silent and black.

The door was not locked.

The Coffin Room Inside, the candles, the flowers, and the silence were all just as they had been during the wake. The silence felt odd only now.

I noticed her at that point.

Lily’s tiny head was resting against our father’s chest as she lay next to him inside the casket. Her fingers gripped the sleeve of his suit, her eyes open but composed.

“Lily!” I moved forward and whispered, but I stopped before I could get to her.

The room was occupied by another person.

Rebecca.

Her hands were shaking as she stood at the bottom of the casket, staring at Lily.

“Why are you in this place?” I gave a hiss.

She didn’t respond. Her respiration was shallow and her face was pallid. Lily’s lips then moved.

“Dad stated… It’s all right now,” she said.

Rebecca’s face shifted from one of shock to one of fear. The kind that penetrates the bones deeply.

“No,” she whispered. “No, she is aware.”

The Disclosure
No one moved for a long time. Shadows appeared to breathe on the walls as the flames flickered.

“What are you discussing?” I insisted.

Rebecca’s eyes were shiny as she turned to face me. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

“You shouldn’t either,” I retorted. “What’s happening?”

However, Lily glanced up at her before she could say anything.

She whispered, “Daddy said you were sorry.”

Rebecca stumbled back as if she had been hit. She reached for her mouth. She shook her head, saying, “Stop.” “You’re not understanding.”

Lily’s voice had become so serene that it no longer sounded like her. “You didn’t mean to push him,” he said.

There was silence in the room.

My throat constricted. “What was it she said?” Despite having heard it, I inquired.

Rebecca started crying, first quietly and then uncontrollably. “It happened by accident,” she muttered. “By the stairs, we were fighting. I moved away from him as he grabbed my arm, and he fell. I didn’t intend to—

There was silence after she finished speaking.

I gave Lily a look. She was still there. Her tiny palm was still on Dad’s chest, but there was an odd look in her eyes that wasn’t despair or rage. Recognizing.

“It’s alright,” she murmured quietly. “He pardoned you.”

The Following Morning
The police arrived at daybreak.

Rebecca did not retract her statement. They discovered the broken banister where he had fallen, the bruising on her arm that matched Dad’s grasp, and the surveillance film that showed her bringing his body into the car before phoning for assistance.

She admitted all of it.

They said that she had panicked and intended to make it seem like a vehicle accident.

Mom remained quiet the entire time. She didn’t even pose inquiries. “It’s over now,” she said, holding Lily close.

It wasn’t over, though. Not at all.

Lily’s Recollections
When everything had subsided a few weeks later, I asked Lily what had transpired that evening and why she had returned to the funeral home.

She gave me a long look before responding.

“Daddy was still there,” she remarked. He waited. I have to help him tell the truth, he said.

I was at a loss for words.

“Did you have that dream?” I inquired.

She gave a headshake. “No. He spoke to me. The same way he used to tuck me in.

I nearly believed her because of how calm and matter-of-fact her tone was.

Nearly.

The Burden of Knowledge
Years later, I still occasionally wake up thinking about that night, including the lily scent, the chill air beneath my feet, and the image of my sister resting next to our father’s body as if she belonged there.

I have narrated the story a hundred times to myself. Perhaps she heard something. Perhaps she made a guess. Perhaps she saw things that weren’t there because she was grieving.

Then I recall Rebecca’s face, which was white, shaking, and scared, and the way she spoke those words as though they were a confession she had been avoiding:

“No, she is aware of it.”

I sometimes question whether Lily will ever fully move past that evening. She has matured; she is still as quiet as ever and exudes an almost unearthly softness.

Although she no longer speaks of her father, she pays a solitary visit to his grave each year on the anniversary of his passing and leaves a single white lily.

She simply smiles and responds, “He still talks to me sometimes,” when I ask why.

Perhaps he does.

Because the truth resurfaced the night she lay next to him.

And a truth like that never truly dies once it awakens.