At her father’s wake, eight-year-old Sofia stayed close to the coffin. She sat silently beside it for hours, her eyes fixed on him. Everyone thought she was in shock… until that very night, she climbed inside and lay down beside him.

It had been an incredibly long day. The living room of Sofia’s grandmother’s house was packed with people: neighbors, relatives, former colleagues of her father, Andrés García. The air was filled with the scent of lilies and freshly brewed coffee. Murmurs of conversation mingled with the muffled cries of a baby somewhere in the corner.

But Sofia paid no attention to any of that. She had been sitting since morning on a small wooden chair, next to her father’s coffin. Her tiny hands rested on the varnished surface, and her legs dangled without reaching the ground.

“Sweetheart, come and eat something,” said his mother, Lucia, kneeling beside him. “You have to eat, okay?”

Sofia didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at her. Her eyes remained fixed on her father’s motionless face, the same face that used to light up with laughter when he tucked her in at night.

Lucia sighed, exhausted.

“Perhaps she needs time,” murmured Sofia’s grandmother from behind. “Let her grieve in her own way.”

The hours passed, and Sofia didn’t move. People came and went, whispering that perhaps the girl didn’t understand death. But Sofia understood more than they thought. She had been there the night her father’s heart stopped in the hospital; she had seen the doctors rush around, try everything… and fail.

Now, all she wanted was to be near him one last time.

As night fell, most of the guests had left. Only a few family members remained, clearing away empty plates and glasses. Lucía, overcome by exhaustion and tears, fell asleep in an armchair, her face pale and her eyes swollen.

That’s when Sofia stood up silently. Her bare feet barely made a sound on the cold floor. She climbed onto the chair, leaned over the coffin, and hesitated for a moment.

Then, very slowly, he lifted one leg and went inside.

The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a lamp in one corner and a few candles. No one noticed her movement at first… until one of her aunts turned around and let out a scream.

-Sofia!

Everyone rushed towards the coffin. Lucia woke up startled and jumped up.

Sofia was lying next to her father, her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed, as if she were asleep.

Panic filled the room. Some people began to cry, others screamed for her to be taken out of there. But, in that first frozen second, Lucía was unable to move. She remained frozen, trembling, staring at her daughter inside the coffin, enveloped in the same silence that surrounded the dead.

Her heart sank, because for a moment she didn’t know which of the two seemed more at peace: her deceased husband… or her living daughter.

—Sofia, darling… wake up, please!

Lucia’s voice broke as she reached into the coffin to pull her daughter out. Sofia was breathing calmly, peacefully, but refused to open her eyes. Her cheek was still pressed against her father’s cold chest when Lucia finally managed to move her away.

Everyone froze. The aunt who had screamed was now crying, clutching her rosary, while Sofia’s grandmother whispered:

“She hasn’t fainted… she’s resting. Look at her face.”

Sofia’s small body went limp in her mother’s arms, but her breathing remained regular. It was as if, lying next to her father, she had found the only comfort that no one else could give her.

After a few seconds, the grandmother took Lucia by the arm and led her to the sofa.

—Let her rest, daughter. Don’t wake her up. She’s been holding all this in for many days.

Lucía sat down, trembling, her eyes fixed on her little girl’s face. In the soft light of the lamp, she realized something: Sofía’s hand was tightly closed around something she must have taken from inside the coffin.

When Lucía carefully opened her small fist, she gasped. It was a folded piece of paper.

Inside, written in Andrés’s unmistakable handwriting, were only a few words:

“If anything ever happens to me, tell Sofia I’m sorry. I wanted to stay longer.”

Lucía’s eyes filled with tears. She hadn’t known that note existed. Andrés had written it a few weeks before his heart attack, but he’d never mentioned it to anyone. He’d been working incredibly long hours for months, trying to save the small family business, drowning in debt. He’d pushed himself so hard that his heart couldn’t take it anymore.

Lucía understood, at that moment, why Sofía hadn’t cried. The girl had overheard the argument they’d had the previous week, when Lucía, in despair, reproached Andrés for loving his work more than his family.

And now, Sofia had to believe that her father had died because of that fight.

Clutching the note to her chest, Lucía felt a pain deeper than any she had ever known. The guilt she thought she had buried deep inside returned with all its force.

Sofia stirred in his arms, slowly opening her eyes.

-Mother…

Lucia hurriedly dried her tears.

—I’m here, my love.

“Dad was cold,” Sofia whispered weakly. “I wanted to warm him up. I didn’t want him to be alone.”

Lucía burst into tears. She hugged her daughter tightly and said between sobs:

—You haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart. Dad knew you loved him very much.

Sofia hid her face in her mother’s shoulder.

“He told me… that he was sorry,” she murmured, half asleep. “And that I could sleep peacefully now.”

Lucia froze.

—What did you say?

Sofia blinked, tired.

—He said sorry, and told me to go to sleep…

It wasn’t a supernatural statement, just the vivid imagination of a grieving girl, seeking peace amidst her pain. But those words pierced Lucia’s heart like lightning.

For the first time since Andrés’ death, she felt the suffocating guilt rising, even if only a little.

He kissed Sofia’s forehead and whispered:

—Rest, my darling. Tomorrow we’ll go see Dad together… and we’ll say goodbye to him the way he deserves.

That night, when the house was finally empty and the candles were slowly burning down, Lucía sat next to the coffin until dawn, holding Andrés’s note in her hands.

She understood that those last words weren’t just for Sofia… they were also for her.

The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the living room curtains, illuminating the wreaths and bouquets surrounding Andrés’s coffin. The air no longer felt so heavy, just silent. Peaceful.

Sofia woke up in her grandmother’s arms. Her first words were soft and confident:

—Can I say goodbye to Dad now?

Lucia nodded, with a lump in her throat.

—Yes, darling. Let’s do it together.

They dressed her in a white dress that Andrés had bought her for her birthday, one she never got to wear. This time, when she approached the coffin, Sofía neither cried nor trembled. She stood on tiptoe, placed both hands on the polished wood, and offered a slight smile.

“Goodbye, Dad,” she whispered. “Thank you for telling me not to be afraid.”

Silence fell over the room. Lucía felt her eyes fill with tears. There was no longer fear in the girl’s voice, only a serene warmth, the tranquility that comes when one begins to accept reality.

When the funeral home employees arrived to carry the coffin to the hearse, Sofia squeezed her mother’s hand tightly. They walked behind, step by step, following the procession as it moved toward the small cemetery where Andrés would be buried.

Beside the open grave, the priest said a few brief words. Lucía barely heard anything; her mind kept returning to the years she had shared with Andrés: the laughter, the arguments, the hugs, the difficulties, and the love that, despite everything, was always there.

When it was Sofia’s turn to place a flower on the coffin, the girl bent down and placed a single sunflower on top.

“This one’s from both of us,” she said quietly.

Lucía looked at her, tears streaming down her face. Then she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the note Andrés had written, the one Sofía had found the night before. She carefully placed it inside the coffin before they lowered it.

Her hands trembled as she whispered:

—He knows it, Sofia. He knows we forgave him.

The ceremony ended. Little by little, family and friends left, offering words of comfort before departing. Only Lucía and Sofía remained, sitting for a while on the grass, watching the workers finish covering the grave.

After a long silence, Sofia turned to her mother.

—Mom, are you still sad?

Lucia nodded.

—A little, yes. But I think Dad would want us to be okay.

Sofia smiled gently.

—Then I’ll be fine too.

Lucía wrapped an arm around her daughter, feeling the steady, calm beat of her little heart against her own. For the first time since Andrés’s death, she no longer felt the crushing weight of grief, but something different: love… and the quiet certainty that life would go on.

That night, when Lucía tucked Sofía into bed, the little girl whispered:

—I dreamt about Dad. He was smiling.

Lucia kissed him on the forehead.

—Then perhaps it means that he is at peace.

Sofia stared at her.

—And so are we, right?

Lucia smiled through her tears.

—Yes, my love. Us too.

When the lights went out, the house no longer felt empty or broken. It wasn’t marked only by absence, but filled with the serene memory of a man who loved deeply, worked tirelessly, and who, thanks to the innocence and heart of a little girl, was finally forgiven.