20/05/2026
We were sitting in the third row of the church during the final prayer. He was right in the middle, sandwiched between my mother and me. The choir was humming softly, the congregation’s eyes were closed, and my father’s head was bowed.I thought he had just fallen asleep.But when the pastor said "Amen" and the lights came up, my father didn't move. His body slumped heavily against my shoulder. His skin was already cold.The paramedics said it was a sudden, massive heart attack. They told us he didn’t suffer.At the wake, our church community showered us with love. Our youth pastor hugged my mother. The elders praised what a godly, righteous man my father had been. Beside us stood my 19-year-old brother, Leo. He looked utterly destroyed, his eyes red from weeping, his arms wrapped tightly around our mother to keep her from collapsing.For a month, our house felt like a tomb.I took over my father’s routine. I locked the doors at night. I checked the mail. I tried to be the anchor my mother needed.Then, exactly four weeks after the funeral, the head usher from our church stopped by our house.He didn't come inside. He just stood on the porch, looking nervously down the street."I found this under the pew cushion where your father was sitting that night," the usher whispered, slipping a small plastic bag into my hand. "I didn't show the police because... well, look at the label."Inside the bag was my father’s leather-bound prayer journal.I took it to my bedroom and locked the door. My hands shook as I flipped past years of handwritten prayers, Bible verses, and family notes.The very last entry was dated the exact day he died.The handwriting was erratic, jagged, and rushed—nothing like his usual neat script."If I don't make it through service tonight, look in the basement tool chest. The tea tasted like almonds. Don't let Leo near your mother."My blood turned to ice.And then, from the hallway right outside my bedroom door, I heard the faint, distinct sound of Leo's footsteps stopping right outside.
