The unease from the voices downstairs mingled with the residual terror of her dream, compelling Lysandra to move. Before leaving her room, almost instinctively, she picked up her cell phone from the bedside table. The screen lit up, and an icy chill ran down her spine, far more intense than any from a nightmare.
Ten missed calls. All from Agnes.
With a heavy heart, her trembling fingers opened the messaging app. There was a new one, also from Agnes, sent several hours earlier, in the dead of night. She read the first few words and felt as if the floor had opened up beneath her, as if an invisible hand were squeezing her chest, leaving her breathless.
"My child Lysandra," the message began, the simplicity of the words laden with unfathomable pain. "With a broken soul, I must tell you that my dear mother... my sweet old lady... has just passed away. She went peacefully, in her sleep. I was trying to call you... Forgive me for not being able to speak right now..."
Lysandra let the phone fall onto the bed. The words "had passed away" echoed in her mind like a funeral dirge. Agnes's mother. Dead. The memory of the worry in Nana's voice the day before, her hasty departure to her village deep in the jungle... it all took on a tragic, devastating meaning. Her own nana's anguish, now magnified by this irreparable loss, struck her with the force of a wave.
She completely forgot about the voices that had awakened her, her own agitation from the dream. All that existed was Agnes's pain, a pain she felt almost as her own.
She dressed in the first thing she found, her movements clumsy, her mind still numb. She left her room and went downstairs, no longer with the caution of someone investigating a nighttime noise, but with the urgency of someone seeking to share a sorrow, to offer impossible comfort.
Upon reaching the foyer, the scene she encountered stopped her информация (in her tracks). The dim light of a lamp illuminated Fernando, standing near the large house phone, though he also held his cell phone in his hand. He wasn't talking to anyone mysterious; his tone of voice was low, respectful, but firm. He was coordinating, giving precise instructions.
"...yes, the 'La Esperanza' funeral home in Felipe Carrillo Puerto will handle the local arrangements. I've already confirmed the service details there with them... No, don't worry about the costs, it's all covered... I very much appreciate your diligence at this hour, Mr. Ramírez..."
Fernando hung up and sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair with a gesture of tiredness and concern. Only then did he seem to notice Lysandra's presence.
"Lys," he said softly, his hazel eyes reflecting the sadness of the situation. "You already know, don't you?"
Lysandra nodded, unable to speak, a lump tightening her throat.
It was then that she saw her. Sitting in one of the armchairs in the adjoining living room, barely visible in the dim light, was Agnes. Her small figure was hunched over, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She held a crumpled handkerchief in her hands, her gaze lost on an indefinite spot on the floor. She was devastated. The pillar of strength and joy that Nana had always been was now the very picture of helplessness and the deepest sorrow.
Fernando must have received the news directly from Agnes during the night, perhaps while Lysandra was still lost in her own turbulent dreams. And instead of waking her, he had acted, had begun to pull strings, to organize the unorganizable, to try to ease the burden of the woman who had raised them both. He had made arrangements for the funeral home to handle all the paperwork in Agnes's village, ensuring her mother would have a dignified farewell, and he had probably insisted that Agnes return to the mansion, so she wouldn't be alone with her grief in those first terrible hours.
Lysandra approached her nana slowly. Each step echoed in the grief-laden silence of the mansion. When she reached her, she knelt and, without a word, simply took Agnes's hands in hers. They were cold, trembling.
Agnes looked up, her blue eyes, normally so vivacious, now red and swollen from crying, veiled by a layer of unfathomable pain. Upon seeing Lysandra, a new wave of sobs shook her.
"My child..." she managed to say between tears. "My little mother... my little mother is gone..."
Lysandra hugged her tightly, feeling the fragility of her small body, the tremor of her mourning. There were no words that could alleviate that kind of pain. Only presence, contact, the silent sharing of a sorrow that now filled every corner of Thorne Mansion, uniting them all in a bond of compassion and loss. The early morning, which had begun with the echoes of a disturbing dream, now revealed itself as the start of a day of mourning and farewell.