It had been a month since my son, Lucas, died. He was only eight. One careless driver, one blinding afternoon, and our world went gray. The colors drained from everything—our house, our routines, even our hearts.
I still wandered into his room sometimes, pretending I had a reason. His Lego set lay half-built, one sneaker abandoned by the bed. His pillow still smelled faintly of him. Every small trace was a punch to the gut, yet I couldn’t erase him.
My husband, Ethan, coped differently. He buried himself in work and silent nights, holding our five-year-old daughter, Ella, like she was all that remained. He rarely said Lucas’s name, but his absence spoke volumes.
Then, one Tuesday, as sunlight hit the kitchen, Ella dropped a bomb.
“Mom,” she said, crayon in hand, “I saw Lucas in the window.”
I froze. “What window?”
“The pale-yellow house across the street,” she said. “He waved at me.”
I wanted to dismiss it—grief playing tricks, a child’s imagination. But something in her certainty made my chest tighten. That night, she handed me a drawing: two houses, two windows, and a smiling boy waving from across the street.
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