Just a month ago, she was unrecognizable from who she is now — lively, strong, joyful. People smiled when she passed by, children waved. But when her only son died, something in her soul broke beyond repair.

She stopped eating. Stopped speaking. Stopped living.

Her once warm home turned cold and silent. The curtains stayed drawn, the phone rang unanswered, the front door never opened. She wandered around like a ghost, pale and sunken, as if death had come not only for her son but for her as well.

And then — the dreams began.

The first night, she thought it was just her mind breaking. In the dream, her son sat at the edge of her bed. Not glowing, not angelic. Just… there. Wearing his usual hoodie, looking tired and frightened. He reached out and said:
— Mom, I’m not dead. They made a mistake. Please, help me.

She jolted awake, her heart pounding like a war drum. The image was so vivid, so real — his touch, his voice, his eyes pleading with hers.

The next morning, she went to the police.

— I know how it sounds, — she said, voice shaking. — But he spoke to me. It wasn’t a dream. He’s alive. You buried the wrong person. Please, let me open the grave.

They looked at her with pity.

— It’s grief, ma’am. You’re in shock. You need time, support… not to dig up graves.

But no amount of therapy or pills silenced the voice. Every night, it came back. Every night, clearer.

— Why won’t you believe me, Mom? You always believed me before.

She couldn’t wait anymore. Before dawn, she packed water and gloves, took the same shovel they once used together in the garden, and headed for the cemetery.

She knew every step — how to sneak past the groundskeeper, where the grave was, how deep it might be.

The earth was softer than expected. Damp. Her arms ached, her breath grew heavy, but something deeper than muscle pushed her forward. Something unexplainable.

Finally, the lid of the coffin appeared. Her hands trembled. She laid a palm on it. Was it her imagination, or did it feel… warm?

With one final effort, she opened it.

And froze.

IT WASN’T HIM.

A man lay there, yes. Dressed similarly. Around the same age. But it wasn’t her son. No scar under the chin. No birthmark on the collarbone. Even the hands — larger, rougher. The body had different features entirely.

She screamed. From horror. From rage. From knowing, deep in her bones, she had been right all along.

Neighbors called the police. She barely looked up when they arrived. Just whispered over and over:
— I told you. I told you he wasn’t dead.

The body was re-examined. The truth came out fast.

There had been a mix-up at the morgue. Two bodies were delivered the same day — one man with no ID or family, and her son. Due to miscommunication, the stranger had been buried as her son.

And the real son?

He was alive.

Three days later, they found him — in a private clinic under a false name. He had been admitted with massive head trauma, unable to speak or identify himself. Facial injuries had made recognition impossible.

DNA confirmed it.

When she finally saw him — alive, thin, bandaged, but breathing — she collapsed to her knees. No scream. No hysteria. Just quiet tears and trembling hands gripping his.

— You called me, — she whispered. — And I heard you.

Now, no one dares to doubt her.

She wasn’t crazy. She was a mother. And somehow, someway, a mother’s heart heard the call of her child through earth, death, and disbelief.

Sometimes, a mother’s love is stronger than death itself.