When the service ended, people began to file out slowly. Some stopped to squeeze my shoulder, to repeat words that meant nothing and everything at the same time: “Stay strong, Antonio,” “If you need anything…” “She’s in a better place now.” I nodded mechanically, my mind a blur.
I saw Daniel standing near the doors, receiving a final wave of sympathy. Then, suddenly, he moved toward me.
He approached quietly, his face expressionless, his movements precise. He looked like a man who had already made a decision and was simply waiting for the appropriate moment to deliver it.
“Antonio,” he said softly.
It was the first time he had spoken directly to me that day.
“We need to talk.”
There was no warmth in his voice, no shared grief, no recognition of what we had both lost. Just a practical tone, like a manager calling an employee into his office. Still, I followed him, because I didn’t have the strength to do anything else.
We stepped aside, away from the few people still lingering in the church. We stood near a side aisle, beside an old wooden confessional that smelled of dust and varnish. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows above, painting the floor with fractured colors. For a moment, I wondered if he was finally going to say something human. Something about Laura. Something about how we might lean on each other in the days ahead.
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