Last Thursday started like every other awful, quiet night I’ve had since my family fell apart. By midnight I was scrubbing a clean counter just to avoid thinking too much—right up until three soft knocks on my front door turned my whole world inside out.

It was Thursday night. Late.

The kind of late when nothing good happens. I was wiping the same spot on the counter for the third time, just to fill the silence, when I heard it.

Three soft knocks.

A pause.

Then a tiny, trembling voice I hadn’t heard in two years.

“Mom… it’s me.”

The dishtowel slipped from my hand.

For a second, the words didn’t make sense. I tried to make them make sense, but they were devoid of meaning.

Then, my whole body went cold.

Because that voice belonged to one person, and there was no way I could be hearing it now.

It sounded like my son.

My son, who died at five years old. My son, whose tiny casket I’d kissed before they lowered it into the ground. My son I’d begged and screamed and prayed for every night since.

Gone.

For two years.

Another knock.

“Mom? Can you open?”

My throat closed. I couldn’t move.

Grief had tricked me before—phantom footsteps, the flash of blonde hair at the grocery store, a laugh that wasn’t his.

But this voice wasn’t a memory turned into something I see out of the corner of my eye. It was sharp and clear and alive.

Too alive.

I forced my legs to move down the hallway, gripping the wall as I went.

“Mommy?”

The word slipped under the door and cracked me open.

I unlocked it with shaking hands and opened it wide.

My knees almost gave out.

A little boy stood on my porch, barefoot and dirty, shivering in the porch light.

He wore a faded blue T-shirt with a rocket ship on it.

The same shirt my son was wearing when he went to the hospital.

He looked up at me with wide brown eyes.

Same freckles. Same dimple on the right cheek.

Same cowlick that never stayed down no matter how much water I used.

“Mommy?” he whispered. “I came home.”

My heart just… stopped.

I grabbed the doorframe.

“Who… who are you?” I managed.

He frowned like I’d told a bad joke.

“It’s me,” he said. “I’m Evan.

Mom, why are you crying?”

Hearing his name hit me like a punch.

“I… my son… my son is dead,” I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

His lip trembled.

“But I’m right here,” he whispered. “Why are you saying that?”