I woke up at 3 a.m., thirsty and groggy. The house was quiet, wrapped in the stillness of the early morning. As I made my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water, I suddenly heard my son’s voice calling from his room.
“Mom, can you turn off the light?”The request was so ordinary, so familiar, that I didn’t think twice. I walked down the hallway, reached inside his room, and switched off the lamp without even looking inside.
Still half-asleep, I returned to my bed and snuggled under the blankets. But as I lay there, something unsettling slowly crept into my mind — a realization that made my breath catch. My son wasn’t home.He had left earlier that day to go on a camping trip with his friends.My heart skipped. Slowly, I sat up and whispered to myself, “Then… who just spoke to me?”Fear and confusion churned inside me, but I forced myself to get up. Step by step, I walked back to his room.
The door was slightly ajar, just as I’d left it.When I pushed it open, the room was empty — perfectly neat, perfectly still. His bed was made, his belongings were gone. There was no sign that anyone had been there.I stood frozen, trying to make sense of what I had heard. The voice had been so clear, so unmistakably my son’s.Then I noticed something on his nightstand: a small framed photo of him and me, taken when he was little. The light from the hallway reflected softly on the glass.And in that moment, I understood.
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