By two in the morning the others had gone home and he was alone with it: the coffin on its two benches, the two white candles, the tin basin of paper ash, and his own shadow thrown up the wall and across half the ceiling by light coming from below his knees.
He knew the rules. Feed the candles. Nothing living over the coffin. Nobody sleeps.
A cat cried in the yard, once, and he got up and went to the door to see about it, and there was nothing there, and when he came back one of the candle flames was leaning as though something had walked past it.
He sat down again and folded his hands and told himself he would only close his eyes.
When he woke, everything was where he had left it. Both candles burning. The incense down to its last quarter inch, as it should have been. The ash in the basin at the same level. He sat up straight and let his breath out and felt the specific, undignified relief of a man who has got away with something.
Then he looked at the wall.
There were two shadows on it. One sitting. One standing beside the sitting one. He turned around and there was nobody in the room, and he turned back and there were still two, and the standing one was beginning, without hurry, to face him.
The rule had never been about staying awake. The rule was about being the only one sitting there when you woke up.