For a moment, my brain refused to understand the sound. It didn’t belong in this house. Not anymore.
Because that voice belonged to one person— and that person had been gone for two years.
Another pause.
Then, quieter this time:
“Mom? Can you open the door?”
My chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.
That voice sounded exactly like my little boy.
My son, who died at five years old.
My son whose coffin I kissed before it disappeared into the ground.
My son I had mourned every single day since.
Another knock echoed through the hallway.
“Mom?”
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