My grandmother’s funeral took place on a gray, drizzly morning. She died suddenly, gently, like a fading breath: no illness, no last words. We were all devastated, especially my father, her youngest son, who was with her until the very end.
After the ceremony, we took her to the city crematorium. The coffin was lowered into the furnace; the incense rose in thick wisps. We waited in silence in the room, each of us heavy-hearted.
Fifteen minutes later, a crematorium worker entered with a confused expression:
—Please excuse the family… but the oven just suddenly shut off. We’ll restart it right away. It might be a technical issue…
We nodded, thinking it was a machine issue. But then it happened a second time… and a third time… exactly the same. The fire would blaze and then suddenly go out. The system would stop mid-process, without showing any clear error. The technician was baffled; he had never seen a failure repeat itself so many times.
Finally, the head of the oven—a man with more than twenty years in the trade—decided to open the chamber to check. His face looked strange… pale, a little scared. And then…
When the chamber door opened… all the employees were petrified.
Inside there was no corpse turning to ashes.
My grandmother was incorporated .
Her eyes were wide open, glassy, but with a glint of resentment. Her lips moved… as if she were saying something… but without a voice. Her body, which must have been cold by now, trembled slightly.
An employee screamed in panic:
—She… she’s not dead! SHE’S ALIVE!
My whole family rushed inside. My father immediately collapsed to his knees, screaming “Mom!” like a child. They called emergency services right away, but they were all helpless: there was no pulse, no reflexes. However, his body wasn’t stiff, and his mouth was still barely moving.
A healthcare worker murmured:
—The old woman’s body isn’t burning… something is preventing the fire from catching… as if… there were an invisible force stopping it…
Then the technician, trembling, said in a low voice:
—I saw something like that… twenty years ago… she was also an old woman… she also got into the oven… and then her whole family… they had bad luck…
Everyone fell silent.
My grandmother didn’t wake up, but she wasn’t burned either. The fire died down every time it reached her coffin. We had no choice but to take her back home, in the coffin blackened by soot, but still intact.
From that day on, strange things began to happen…
Ever since we brought her home, a fine mist seemed to hang over the house. The incense smoke flickered: sometimes it flared up, sometimes it died down as if someone were blowing on it. The wall clock, which had been working perfectly, stopped at 3:15 ; when we wound it, the minute hand insisted on returning to that mark. Every night, the tabby cat from the yard sat in front of the coffin door, its fur standing on end, growling deeply.
The second night, my father fell asleep in a chair next to the coffin. He awoke with a start to a clinking sound, like someone tapping a china bowl with a small spoon in the kitchen. He followed the sound; the oil lamp, suddenly, pop!, ignited; the bluish-green flame rose straight up like a spearhead. Before the chill had passed, he heard my grandmother’s voice, thin as a wisp of smoke, but clear:
“ Do not burn me. Take me to the village, to rest beside him. Open my clothes, there is a key. ”
My father, trembling, ran to call everyone. My older sister and I held him up; my younger aunt looked for a flashlight. My sister-in-law—who had dressed Grandma in the shroud—said hesitantly,
“I put another layer of clothing on her so she wouldn’t get cold… I didn’t see any keys.”
We all bowed before the coffin. My father, with trembling hands, unbuttoned Grandma’s undershirt. At the edge of the lining, in a seam closed as if it had never been touched, was a small knot . With a small pair of scissors, he carefully opened it: from the lining emerged a bunch of rusty keys tied with faded red thread and a small brown cloth bag , sewn shut. My youngest aunt bit the thread and opened it: inside was a sheet of paper folded in quarters and a polished bodhi bead.