he hallway was dim, the yellow bulbs flickering as if frightened themselves. And there stood a boy. Small. Thin. With dark hair falling over his forehead. He looked up at me as though he’d found exactly what he’d been searching for.

“Mom,” he whispered again, breathless, as though he’d run a great distance.

My knees buckled. I couldn’t speak. My mind raced, trying to stitch reality into place: my son had been gone for two years. I’d held his lifeless hand in a hospital bed. I’d heard the machines fall silent. I’d signed forms, chosen clothes for burial, listened to condolences that sounded like static.

And yet here he was, staring at me with those familiar eyes. Eyes that had once begged for another story, another cookie, another minute before bedtime.

I took a trembling step forward.

“Who… who are you?” I choked out, my voice rasped raw by disbelief. But deep inside, I already knew.

He smiled, just slightly, as though comforted by the question.
“It’s me,” he repeated, as if that explained everything.

His small hand slid into mine. Warm. Solid. Real. My vision blurred as tears pushed forward without permission. I pulled him inside and shut the door with a shaking hand, terrified that he might disappear again if someone else saw him.

The quiet of the house wrapped around us like a shroud.
“You’re cold,” I whispered.
“I walked,” he said simply.
“From where?”
He looked down. “I don’t know. But I knew how to get home.”

His voice was steady, but something underneath it felt… wrong. Not evil. Not dangerous. Just misplaced. Like a song played in the wrong key.

I guided him to the kitchen table, the same place where he once drew stick figures with too-big heads and messy sunbeams.

He sat gently, feet not quite touching the floor. I stared at him, trying to memorize everything, terrified to blink.
His lashes. His tiny hands cupped together. The way he tilted his head while thinking. It was all the same. Yet his skin was paler, almost translucent, as though the world he’d come from lacked sunlight.

“I missed you so much,” I said suddenly. The words escaped without order or permission. I hadn’t planned them. They just fell into the air like broken glass.
He nodded, and for a moment I thought I saw sorrow flicker across his face — something heavy, something older than five.
“I tried to come sooner,” he murmured.

My breath hitched.
“Tried?”
He nodded again, then leaned closer, whispering as if the walls could listen.
“There were places I couldn’t go. Doors I couldn’t open.”

My skin crawled.

“What doors?”
His little fingers tapped the wooden surface nervously.
“Big doors. Metal ones. With locks. And men with no faces walking in the hall.”

A cold wave ran through me. I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but words jammed in my throat.

“Where were you?” I finally managed.
He shrugged slightly, as if the question didn’t matter.
“Not here,” he said. “But I never forgot you.”

The clock on the stove ticked louder than usual, each second thudding like a hammer. I reached out slowly, brushing his cheek with my fingertips. Warm. Warm like the living.

My chest tightened painfully.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, desperate to do something motherly, anything to make this moment normal.
He hesitated, then nodded.
“Maybe,” he whispered. “But not like before.”

I opened the fridge, hands shaking, grabbed yogurt, fruit, whatever I could. I set it in front of him, praying he’d eat. He just stared, then pushed it away gently.

“What do you need?” I asked. The question felt like stepping onto thin ice.
He looked up. His eyes were darker now, not in color but in depth. As if they held shadows.
“I came to tell you something,” he said. “But you have to promise not to cry.”

My throat burned.
“I can’t promise that,” I said.
He nodded sadly, as though he expected that answer.

Then he leaned in closer.
“It wasn’t your fault.”

The floor disappeared beneath me.
“What?”
“Me. The hospital. The machines. The people. None of it was your fault.”

The room began spinning. I dug my nails into the edge of the table to anchor myself.
“How do you know?” I whispered.

He touched his small chest softly, as if tapping where a memory lived.
“I remember,” he said. “And they told me.”

“They?”
He nodded.
“The ones who watch. The ones who decide when someone has to go somewhere else.”

I felt sick.
“What are you, sweetheart?” I whispered, because the question no longer felt insane.
He blinked. Not confused. Not offended.
“I’m your son,” he said. “But I’m not the same.”

Tears spilled over before I could stop them.
He frowned.
“You promised not to cry,” he said quietly.
“I told you I couldn’t,” I sobbed.

He slid off the chair and wrapped his arms around me. Small arms. Real arms. Warm arms. I held him, terrified that if I squeezed too tight he’d vanish like smoke.

After a long moment, he pulled back.
“I can’t stay,” he said. “They’ll come soon