That afternoon, she stepped across the threshold of the hut, turned left, then meandered through the deserted street. Under a clouded sky, the gentle breeze played with her shawl draped over her back. She appeared to walk like the wind, disappearing around a bend as drizzle started to dampen the dusty road.
That was the last time anyone saw her, several years ago. Years later, people only heard her name when exchanging stories from uncertain sources. Her story was as elusive as her name.
According to these stories, her figure was sometimes glimpsed in a far-off place. This figure also appeared in different locations, just momentarily, then vanished, leaving no trace until someone recognized her, somewhere. She sometimes appeared among familiar faces, but was often hidden among a crowd of strangers.
However, these vague tales had their own common thread. Her figure would always appear where people died. She was always spotted, albeit vaguely, among those mourning, slipping into the row of people offering prayers for the deceased, or standing solemnly witnessing the burial of a corpse. But her appearances were always shadowy. Hardly anyone knew where she came from or where she disappeared to. What many people began to realize was this: there was always a strange woman at almost every death.
If these elusive stories were pieced together, first of all, the fleeting figure of this woman was frequently seen everywhere. She was always on the move, walking like the wind, and no one ever knew where she was headed. But she always stopped where someone had died. It didn’t matter if she knew the deceased or their family or not. It didn’t matter if the deceased was good or evil. It didn’t matter if the one who died there was an influential figure, a holy person, or a vagrant. It didn’t matter whether many mourned or no one cared to honor the death.
Then, there at those places of death, she bore witness. Just before the deceased was prayed over and taken to the cemetery, there was usually a family member or representative who asked the mourners to testify that the departed was a good person and thus deserved a place in heaven. And in such moments, her figure would appear as one of the people giving testimony; a testimony that the deceased was good in their life—even though, in reality, this was not always the case.
A vague story tells that one day she appeared as the third mourner. There were only three mourners outside the family of the deceased. It seemed that no one cared to mourn. Neighbors pretended to be busy with their own work, then quietly left the house until the corpse was buried.
Apparently, the deceased was known as societal scum. He was a stinky bastard. Robbing and mugging were his skills. Causing trouble was his hobby. In people’s eyes, he was an enormous sinner. That’s why no one mourned his death. His death was a relief for many.
But there she was, the silhouette-like figure, present as the third mourner. The family of the deceased was surprised to see a strange woman, unknown to them, paying her respects.
“Did you know him?” a family member of the deceased finally asked.
“Yes, I knew him as a good person,” she answered.
“Where did you meet him? And who are you?”
“I met him somewhere. It doesn’t matter who I am. But I dare to testify that he was indeed a good person.”
“Oh, hopefully…”
A similar story was also vaguely told. One day, on the outskirts of town, a woman died. Only a handful of people cared to mourn. Most of them were her family. Apparently, the woman who died was known to be a prostitute. People were hesitant to attend. Men were afraid of being suspected of using her services. Women feared being considered her peers.
But there she was, the silhouette-like figure, present as a mourner. The family of the deceased was surprised that a strange woman came to mourn.
“Were you her friend?” asked one of the deceased woman’s relatives.
“Yes, I was her friend,” she answered, nodding slowly.
The questioner nodded slowly in return, smiling knowingly.
“Where did you meet her? And who are you?”
“I met her somewhere. It doesn’t matter who I am. But I dare to testify that she was indeed a good person.”
“Yes, yes, hopefully…”
That was the brief conversation that accompanied the prostitute’s corpse to the cemetery. That was the short conversation that spread from mouth to mouth; there was always a stranger attending every death, always testifying that the deceased was good so the angels would record them as deserving of heaven.
***
That’s what people told years later. An unknown woman was found dead in a narrow alley boarding house. She lived alone. The neighbors also didn’t know who she was. What people knew was that the woman was often seen walking like the wind, roaming the streets, with a shawl always hanging on her back.
Some said she died of some disease. At first, the people around were hesitant to mourn. Only a few people were seen tending to her corpse. They were none other than the city’s funeral workers.
But then people were amazed by a strange sight. As the woman’s coffin was lifted and carried towards the cemetery, unfamiliar figures were seen accompanying the corpse. They walked in a line behind the coffin. The procession was unending, filling all the streets. The number of mourners was beyond count. Until the corpse arrived at the cemetery, as far as the eye could see, there was a sea of people.
“Who is being buried?” asked someone who eventually joined the funeral procession to the cemetery, amazed by the unusual sight, to an unknown person next to him.
“She is the one who paved the way to heaven for everyone.”
“Yes, but who is she?”
“She is a good person. We are her witnesses.”
The questioner could only bow his head and stroke his chest. And since then, there were no more stories about the strange figure who always appeared at every death.