An employee approached with the authorization folder. The time was written in the upper corner. Marcos saw the pen, saw the line where they awaited his confirmation, and felt an animalistic resistance in his chest.
“I need to see her one more time,” he said.
The employee hesitated. He explained the procedure with a gentleness that was perhaps meant to be human. Marcos didn’t hear the end. He repeated the same phrase. One last time. Please.
When they opened the lid, the entire crematorium seemed to freeze. Ana Clara’s mother stopped praying. An aunt held a glass halfway to her mouth. An employee looked down at his shoes.
Nobody moved.
Marcos leaned over Ana Clara. He was going to apologize, though he didn’t know why. He was sorry for not being in the car. He was sorry for not arguing harder to stop her from going out in the rain.
Then he saw the belly move.
It was minimal. A tremor that anyone with less love would have dismissed. Marcos blinked, swallowed, and waited. Silence filled his ears until it happened again.
A small movement. Weak. Alive.
