That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Ellen sat by the window, laptop open, watching the grainy images on loop. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, echoing faintly like her son’s voice. Somewhere between exhaustion and ache, she whispered back, “Who are you?” But the room answered only with silence.
The next morning, she returned to the cemetery, gravel crunching under her shoes. The grave looked undisturbed at first, until she saw a folded piece of paper tucked under a flower stem. Her heart skipped. Hands trembling, she pulled it free. The note read: Sleep peacefully, brave boy.