The sky groaned with thunder as mourners gathered in the yard, rain tapping against the tin roof like whispers of sorrow. In the center, a pale yellow coffin rested atop two worn stools. Inside lay a young woman—just 25—gone too soon during a tragic childbirth.

She had been the family’s light: respectful, loving, and deeply devoted. Her in-laws called her a blessing, proud of the grace she brought into their lives. But only a year after her wedding, pain struck late one night. By the time she reached the hospital, hope was gone. Neither she nor the baby survived.

Grief silenced the house. Her mother-in-law collapsed over and over. Her father-in-law sat as if carved in stone, eyes fixed on her photo smiling gently from the coffin’s lid.

When it was time to move her body, eight strong men arrived. Yet no matter how hard they tried, the coffin wouldn’t rise. Their muscles strained, their brows damp—still, it held firm.

A hushed voice said, “She hasn’t left yet.”

A monk stepped forward. “Open it. Perhaps there is something still unsaid.”

The lid creaked open. And everyone gasped.

Her face lay peaceful, yet two dried tears etched lines on her cheeks. Her eyelashes were still damp. Her sorrow had lingered.

The mother-in-law dropped to her knees, clutching her hand. “My child… what breaks your heart still? Speak to me.”

And then—like a crack through the silence—her husband sobbed aloud, collapsing before her coffin.

Everyone turned, stunned.

Madam Hong’s voice trembled. “Son… did she say something to you?”

His face lifted slowly, eyes raw with regret. What he whispered next froze every soul in place.

Because sometimes… what holds a spirit back isn’t the body.

It’s love that never got its answer.