Last Thursday began like every other sleepless night since my life split into a before and after. I cleaned the house long past midnight just to keep my mind from wandering. The silence felt heavy, too still, too aware.
Then—three soft knocks at the door.
Not urgent. Not frightened. Almost gentle.
I froze.
A moment later, a small voice drifted through the wood—one I hadn’t heard in two years.
“Mom… it’s me.”
I felt the world tilt beneath me. That voice belonged to one person—my son. My son who had been gone for two unbearable years.
Yet there it was again. “Mom? Can you open?”
My hands shook as I moved down the hallway. I’d imagined him before—dreams so real they hurt when I woke—but this wasn’t a dream. This voice was steady. Warm. Alive.
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