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 — and all the pain I’d been trying to bury came rushing back.

Lucas had been only eight when he died. One careless driver, one small bike ride home, and my whole world unraveled. The house that used to echo with laughter now felt like a tomb — his toys frozen in place, his smell still lingering on the pillow I couldn’t bring myself to wash. My husband tried to stay strong, but I saw the exhaustion in his eyes. Our daughter, Ella, was too young to understand death but old enough to sense the emptiness. She’d whisper questions at night — “Do the angels let him visit us?” — and I’d hold her close, choking on answers I didn’t believe myself. But that day, when she swore she saw him, something in me broke. I told myself she was dreaming, that her heart missed him so much it created shadows. Yet that night, as I stood by the window, I saw the curtain across the street shift.....