The loss of a child doesn’t just break a heart — it dismantles reality itself. After eight-year-old Lucas was killed in a sudden accident on his way home from school, the world his mother, Grace, knew simply stopped making sense.
Days blurred into a hollow routine. His bedroom remained untouched, frozen in time. A half-built Lego set sat on his desk. His pillow still carried the faint scent of shampoo. Every corner of the house echoed with absence. Grace’s husband, Ethan, buried himself in work, avoiding the crushing silence at home. Grief settled into their lives like thick fog.
And then there was Ella.
At five years old, Ella didn’t fully understand death, but she felt it. She asked if Lucas was with the angels. She asked when he was coming home. Grace answered the best she could, even when the words felt empty and fragile.
One quiet Tuesday afternoon, everything shifted.
Ella was coloring at the kitchen table when she looked up, pointed across the street, and said casually, “Mommy, Lucas is in that yellow house. He waved at me.”
Grace froze.
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