The early morning at Thorne Mansion had been tinged with a shared sadness. Lysandra remained kneeling beside Agnes for a long time, holding her hands, offering the only possible comfort in the face of such a definitive loss: a silent presence and the warmth of sincere affection. The emotions within Lysandra were an uncontrollable whirlwind; everything had piled up on her. Fernando's arrival and the enigmatic Ruby, the disconcerting reunion with Horacio, the secrets from her parents' chest—Elara's cancer, the lost child, the passionate love letters—and now, the death of Agnes's mother. It was too much.
As she hugged her nana, feeling the tremor of her sobs, Lysandra couldn't help but remember the orphanhood that had marked her. The sharp pain of loss, that feeling of emptiness and unanswered questions, was terribly familiar to her. Although in her case, the certainty of her parents' death was an open wound, an absence that had never fully healed precisely because of the lack of a clear ending, because of that minimal but persistent ember of hope that refused to be extinguished. Both she and Fernando, despite the years, still harbored that splinter of illusion deep in their hearts: the possibility that Julian and Elara, in some inexplicable way, were still alive in some lost corner of the world. That uncertainty made Agnes's grief, so definitive, so real, resonate within her with particular intensity.
Hours later, the Thursday afternoon sun cast a melancholic light over Cancún. Fernando, with discreet efficiency and a palpable affection for Agnes, had coordinated everything. A small viewing room in a modern, serene funeral home on Avenida Huayacán, far from the tourist frenzy and the bustle of downtown, had been arranged so that family and friends could say goodbye to Agnes's mother.
Upon arrival, Lysandra, Fernando, and Ruby were met by an atmosphere of respect and contained sorrow. The room was spacious, with neutral-toned walls and soft, warm lighting that invited contemplation. In the center, on a catafalque covered with an ivory velvet cloth, rested the simple but dignified wooden coffin, surrounded by wreaths of white flowers—baby's breath, chrysanthemums, and lilies—whose sweet, pervasive perfume filled the air. A few tall candles flickered gently, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls.
Agnes was seated in a chair beside the coffin, her face, though lined with tears and fatigue, displaying a moving composure. She was dressed in a simple dark dress, and beside her, several women from her village, some older, others younger, accompanied her in her mourning. Lysandra was moved to see that several of them wore huipiles of breathtaking beauty. They were garments of white or earth-toned cotton, adorned with intricate, vibrant embroidery depicting stylized flowers, exotic birds, and ancestral geometric symbols. The colored silk threads—fiery red, solar yellow, deep blue, emerald green—created patterns that were both an explosion of life and a testament to a centuries-old tradition. Despite the sadness of the moment, these women, with their huipiles and colorful rebozos, emanated a natural elegance, a serene dignity that seemed anchored to the very earth.
The atmosphere was one of respectful murmurs. Small groups of people conversed客户 (in low voices), offering their condolences, sharing memories. Some prayed silently. Lysandra, Fernando, and Ruby approached Agnes. Fernando hugged her tightly, whispering words of comfort in her ear. Ruby, with unexpected delicacy, simply took Agnes's hand in hers and gave her a look full of silent, deep empathy.
Lysandra, as she embraced her nana, felt that wave of shared sadness anew. She observed the women in huipiles, the way they supported each other, the community tejido (woven) around the pain. She saw the serene face of Agnes's mother in a small photograph placed next to a floral arrangement—a woman with a sweet smile and lively eyes, very much like her daughter's.
They sat in chairs arranged in rows, joining the silent mourning. The ambient music was soft, barely perceptible, instrumental melodies that invited introspection. Lysandra watched the candle flames, her thoughts inevitably drifting to her own parents. The ritual of farewell, the presence of the body, the certainty of death… these were elements she had never had. Her loss was a ghost, an absence without a grave or flowers. Seeing Agnes's tangible grief, surrounded by the love of her community, was both heartbreaking and, strangely, almost enviable in its certainty.
The scent of flowers, the murmur of prayers, the solemn beauty of the huipiles embroidered with threads of hope and remembrance… everything mingled in Lysandra's mind, creating a tapestry of complex emotions. The sadness for Agnes was deep and sincere. But beneath it, her own wound persisted, her own search, the intertwined hope and fear of a reunion or a confirmation that never came. The wake for Agnes's mother, in its painful reality, became a mirror that reflected with even starker clarity the blurred outlines of her own family history.