The haunting sound of funeral horns echoed through the narrow alleyways, blending with the soft patter of rain falling on a rusted tin roof. In the center of the courtyard, a golden-painted coffin rested on two wooden stools. Mourners packed the yard, heads bowed in grief for Anaya—the gentle, loving daughter-in-law who had passed away during childbirth.
Anaya was only 25. Since marrying into the Sharma family, she had shown nothing but devotion, caring for her in-laws like her own parents. Her mother-in-law, Meera Sharma, would proudly say, “Any home blessed with a daughter-in-law like Anaya is truly fortunate.” But just over a year into the marriage, tragedy struck.
That fateful night, Anaya was writhing in pain, clutching her swollen belly, crying helplessly. By the time she was rushed to the hospital, she was already too weak. The baby never got the chance to cry its first breath. And Anaya… she never opened her eyes again.
The entire family was shattered. Meera collapsed with grief, wailing uncontrollably. Her husband, Rajan, sat still and silent, staring blankly at the photo of Anaya placed on top of the coffin. In the picture, Anaya beamed with joy, her eyes sparkling with life.
When the time came to move the coffin, eight strong young men stepped forward to carry it to the hearse. But something was off.
Despite their strength, the coffin wouldn’t budge. They strained and grunted, muscles tensed, but the coffin remained anchored to the ground—as if rooted by something unseen. A frail old woman in the crowd murmured:
“She must still be grieving… she’s not ready to go.”
The priest standing nearby spoke gently:
“Open the coffin. She has something left to say.”
With trembling hands, the family unlocked the coffin. As the lid was slowly lifted, gasps spread through the crowd. Anaya’s face, though serene, still glistened with streaks of tears. Her eyes remained softly closed, but the wetness on her lashes told of sorrow even in death.
Meera cried out and collapsed beside the coffin, clutching Anaya’s cold hand.
“Anaya… my child… please don’t cry… If there’s anything you couldn’t say, please tell me… Forgive us, dear…”
Silence fell over the gathering like a shroud. Suddenly, a choked sob broke through. All eyes turned toward Aryan—Anaya’s husband. He had sunk to his knees, face buried in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
Meera turned in alarm, her voice shaking:
“Aryan… what is it…? Did you hear her?”
Aryan raised his face, red-eyed and soaked with rain and tears. His voice cracked as he spoke:
“It was my fault… I… I caused her pain…”
The courtyard held its breath. The rain grew heavier, but no one moved. Aryan stared at his wife’s tear-streaked face and whispered, broken:
“That night… she found out about the other woman. She didn’t yell, she didn’t fight. She just sat silently, crying… clutching her belly the whole night. I told her I’d end it… I swore I would… but she was already so hurt. That night, she collapsed… I rushed her to the hospital, but… it was too late…”
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… Anaya…”
Crying erupted all around. Meera trembled as her voice cracked:
“My child… why did you have to suffer so much…? My daughter-in-law… forgive us for failing you…”
Aryan leaned over the coffin, gripping the wooden edge tightly, his entire body shaking:
“Anaya… I was wrong… Hate me if you must. Curse me. But please… please forgive me… Let me take you to your resting place…”
Suddenly, the coffin shifted slightly—just a small, gentle tremor. The priest nodded solemnly:
“She has let go.”
The pallbearers stepped forward once more. This time, as if freed from some invisible weight, they lifted the coffin effortlessly. The funeral horns began again, their mournful melody cutting through the rain as the procession began.
Aryan remained kneeling on the cold, wet tiles, his tears mixing with the downpour. In his heart, the echoes of his apologies rang endlessly. No amount of regret, no ocean of tears could undo what had been done.
And for the rest of his life, in every dream, in every quiet moment, the image of Anaya—her eyes filled with sorrow—would haunt him, whispering that some wounds… can never be healed by just saying “sorry.”