The church was engulfed in a heavy silence, punctuated only by the soft rustle of clothing and the murmurs of disbelief. It felt as though the world had paused, each second stretching into eternity as everyone tried to process what lay before us. The body in the casket—the body we all thought was my father’s—was someone else entirely. This wasn’t just a case of mistaken identity. This was something far darker and more insidious.
The man in the casket had a thin scar running from his jaw to his temple, a feature my father never had. His hands, folded neatly across his chest, were calloused and rugged, unlike my father’s, which were thin and frail from months of illness. The suit was the one we had chosen for Dad, though, a stark reminder that something was very, very wrong.
