As Astoria galloped toward the procession, her mane billowing like a flag in the wind, there was a collective intake of breath from the mourners. The horse, usually so gentle and composed, was now a force of nature. Her hooves hammered against the ground, echoing through the air like a drumbeat heralding the arrival of something monumental.
In an instant, Astoria was upon us. She reared up, whinnying to the heavens, and brought her powerful hooves down upon the wooden lid of the coffin. The wood splintered under the force, cracking open like a ripe fruit. Gasps erupted from the crowd, some people stepping back in shock, others frozen in place.
For a moment, time itself seemed to pause. I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, as a wave of disbelief washed over me. Yet, as the dust settled and Astoria stepped back, something far more profound filled the air: silence. A heavy, expectant silence that pressed against us, demanding our attention.
