It was close to midnight when I heard three soft knocks on my front door — the kind that don’t demand attention, but quietly insist on it. I had been standing in my kitchen, scrubbing an already clean counter just to keep my hands busy. Grief has a way of filling silence with unbearable noise. Then came a small, trembling voice from the other side of the door: “Mom… it’s me.” My heart stopped. Because the only person who ever called me that in that voice had died two years ago. When I opened the door, a little boy stood...
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