My Son Died, but My 5-Year-Old Daughter Said She Saw Him in the Neighbor’s Window – When I Knocked at Their Door, I Couldn’t Believe My Eyes

Later, when the house was still, I sat by the living room window, staring across the street.

The curtains in the yellow house were drawn tight. The porch light flickered, casting long, soft glows against the siding.

I told myself there was nothing there. I told myself that there was only darkness and that Ella must be imagining things.

But still, I couldn’t look away because I could relate to the feeling of seeing Lucas everywhere.

I used to see him in the hallway, where his laughter used to echo, and in the backyard, where his bike still leaned against the fence.

Grief does strange things. It distorts time, turns shadows into memories, and silences into the sound of a child’s voice you’ll never hear again.

That night, when Ethan came downstairs and found me still sitting by the window, he rubbed my shoulder and said gently, “You should get some rest.”

“I will,” I whispered, though I didn’t move.

He hesitated. “You’re thinking about Lucas again, aren’t you?”

I gave a weak smile.

“When am I not?”

He sighed, pressing his lips to my temple. “We’ll get through this, Grace. We have to.”

But as he turned away, I glanced once more at the house across the street.

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