It had only been a month since I buried my son when my five-year-old daughter pointed to the house across the street and whispered, “Mommy, Lucas is there.” Her small finger trembled as she pointed to the pale-yellow home with the peeling shutters — a house that always seemed too quiet, too still. I wanted to tell her she was imagining things, that grief plays tricks on the heart, but something in her voice stopped me cold. “He waved,” she added softly, eyes wide and certain. My breath caught. In that single moment, all the air left the room —...
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