Five years.
That’s how long it had been since we buried him. Full military honors. Folded flag. The sound of taps echoing across a field that felt too wide, too open, too final. People told me time would make it easier. They were wrong. Time just teaches you how to carry it without collapsing.
That night, I was sitting alone in the living room, half-watching a show I couldn’t follow, when my phone buzzed on the table beside me. I almost ignored it. Most messages at that hour are nothing important—spam, reminders, things that can wait. But something made me glance down. And that’s when my heart stopped.
“Son” flashed across the screen.
For a second, my brain refused to process it. It felt like a glitch, like something out of place in reality. My hand hovered over the phone, suddenly unsteady.
Then it buzzed again.
A message preview appeared:
