I laid my son to rest years ago and spent every day since trying to fill the silence he left behind. Then I came across a photo of a man who looked exactly like the boy I buried.

I buried my son, Barry, 15 years ago. That kind of thing changes a man.

My son was 11 when he died. He had sandy-blond hair and a shy smile. I still remember him as if it happened the day before.

Barry’s disappearance tore my world apart.

The search lasted for months. Police boats dragged the quarry lake. Volunteers walked miles of forest trails. My wife, Karen, and I spent countless nights staring at the phone, hoping it would ring.

It never did.

Eventually, the sheriff sat us down. Without a body, there wasn’t much they could do. The case would stay open, but after so long, they had to assume our son had died.

Karen cried until she couldn’t breathe.

I just sat there.

Karen and I never had other children. We talked about it, but I think we believed losing another child would destroy us completely.

So instead, I buried myself in work.

I owned a small hardware and supply store just outside of town. Keeping it running gave me something to focus on, which made the days move forward.

Fifteen years passed in that way.

Then, one afternoon, something strange happened.

I’d been sitting in the office flipping through resumes for a janitor position. The store needed someone dependable.

Most of the applications looked the same: short job histories, a few references, nothing memorable.

Then I reached one that made me stop.

The name at the top read “Barry.”