When I went to visit my husband’s grave, I was stunned to see a young boy sitting beside it. The moment he lifted his head, my heart nearly stopped — he was the spitting image of my late husband as a child. I asked who he was, but he bolted before I could get an answer. Little did I know, our paths would cross again soon.
The cemetery was still that afternoon, the air filled with the rustle of oak leaves and the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground.
Four months — that’s how long I’d stayed away. I laid Tom to rest at the start of summer and hadn’t returned here until today.
To be truthful, it wasn’t only sorrow that kept me from coming back. There was something darker beneath it, something so painful and shameful I couldn’t bring myself to say
Even thinking about it filled me with shame, but I couldn’t control what I felt. Tom and I had spent years trying to have a child, yet he’d lost hope long before I finally accepted that our dream was over.
In truth, he’d made that decision for both of us when he refused another round of IVF. He mentioned adoption as an option, but I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it.
Back then, I had no idea there was a much deeper reason behind Tom’s choices — one that would later tear my heart apart.
After his death, all those unresolved feelings came rushing back as if no time had passed. I hadn’t had the courage to visit his grave before, but now I was determined to finally face it and find some closure.
Tom had been a kind man and a loving husband — he deserved to have fresh flowers placed on his grave.
But as I approached the headstone, something unusual caught my eye.
A boy, no older than ten, sat cross-legged beside it, as still and natural as if he belonged there.
“Are you lost?” I asked softly, trying not to startle him.
When he looked up, the air seemed to leave my lungs.
The curve of his jaw, the angle of his nose, his eyes — even the little tuft of hair standing at the top of his head…
It was as if I were looking into the face of my husband, exactly as he must have looked thirty-five years ago.
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice trembling as I stepped closer. “What are you doing here? Where did you come from?”
The boy’s eyes went wide with alarm. In an instant, he jumped up and sprinted away.
“Wait! Come back!” I shouted after him, but he never turned around.
He raced across the damp grass, his sneakers leaving wet marks behind, and disappeared through an old, rusted gate at the edge of the cemetery.
For a moment, I wondered if I’d just imagined the whole thing. But as I drew closer to Tom’s grave, I saw the grass still pressed down where the boy had been sitting. On the headstone rested a tiny cluster of wildflowers.
I set the vase of roses I’d brought for Tom carefully at the foot of his grave and stood there, my eyes fixed on his name etched in the granite.
A sudden gust of wind brushed against my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
Who was that boy? And how could he possibly look just like my late husband?
That night, sleep eluded me. His face kept flashing in my mind, and I tried to convince myself it was just my grief distorting reality.
Yet I couldn’t shake the thought.
I went back the following day, and the day after that, visiting every day for an entire week.
But the boy never appeared again… at least, not during that time.
The cemetery remained quiet, visited only by the groundskeepers and the occasional mourner, who gave a brief nod before continuing on their way.
At last, I walked over to one of the workers, a lean man in overalls raking leaves by the maintenance shed.
My throat tightened as I asked,
“Have you noticed a boy around here? He was sitting by a grave on the west side, about ten years old.”
“Yeah, actually,” he replied. “He’s been showing up for a couple of weeks. Never with anyone, as far as I can tell. Just sits by one of the graves.”
With trembling hands, I took out a pen and paper. “If he comes back, could you please let me know?”
The man nodded and carefully slipped the paper into his pocket.
I began to question whether it had all been in my head, if I was truly starting to lose touch with reality. Then, one gray Thursday afternoon, as I folded laundry, my phone buzzed.
A quiet voice whispered, “He’s here.”
I dashed through the rain-slicked streets, desperate to reach the cemetery before the boy vanished once more.