The silence after the last visitor leaves

I just closed the viewing room. The air still smells faintly of lilies and floor wax. The chair by the door is empty now, but I can almost hear the weight of the last person who sat there—how they didn’t speak for ten minutes, just looked at the body like they were trying to memorize a face they’d never see again. It’s strange how much dignity lives in that kind of quiet. I’m not sure if it’s peace or grief, but it’s honest.