The grandmother’s voice, though firm, was gentle as she addressed those around her. “Let the child be,” she implored softly, her eyes glistening with a wisdom that seemed to transcend the moment. “There are things we do not understand,” she added, her words hanging in the air like the lingering smoke from the candles.

Despite her plea, the room remained tense, the adults exchanging anxious glances and whispering conjectures. Was this simply a manifestation of Camila’s grief, a child’s desperate attempt to reach out to the father she had lost? Or was there something more profound at work, something that brushed the edges of the known world with a gentle, mysterious hand?