Rowan’s mind raced, desperately trying to rationalize what he had just witnessed. The movement was so slight, so improbable, that he almost convinced himself it was a trick of the light or a product of his grief-stricken imagination. But deep down, a primal instinct screamed at him to act.
Heart pounding, Rowan broke free from the fog of his disbelief and shouted, startling everyone gathered at the crematorium. The priest paused, his voice faltering, while murmurs of confusion and concern rippled through the small crowd. Even Beatrice, standing off to the side with an expression of detached satisfaction, was momentarily taken aback by her son’s sudden outburst.
“Stop!” Rowan cried, his voice cracking with desperation. “Stop the cremation!”
His feet moved before his mind fully processed the decision, carrying him toward Nyla’s body with a surge of adrenaline. The attendants, perplexed but understanding the urgency in his plea, hesitated. The priest gestured to halt the proceedings, casting a worried glance at Rowan.
“Please, I saw something!” Rowan insisted, his voice urgent and filled with a raw conviction that cut through the air like a knife. “Her belly moved!”
