Daniel had returned, like every year, to the cemetery where his wife rested. Each February, he came alone — bringing flowers, staying only briefly, then leaving without a word.
That evening was especially bleak. Fog wrapped around the gravestones like a heavy blanket, the air damp and bitter. Everything about the scene whispered: Don’t stay here. But Daniel didn’t listen. He never did.
He approached the familiar grave. But something was different this time.
A small figure lay curled on the tombstone — barely visible under a thin, worn blanket. A child. Asleep. Right where his wife’s name was carved.
Startled, Daniel’s breath caught. Rage flickered in his chest. Who would let a child sleep here?
He stepped closer, his footsteps loud on the gravel.
— Hey! Get up! — he snapped, though his voice cracked mid-command.
The boy stirred, eyes fluttering open, wide with fear and confusion. Then, in a fragile voice, he mumbled:
— Sorry, Mommy… I didn’t mean to fall asleep here…
Daniel’s chest clenched. Mommy? He turned quickly to read the gravestone — his wife’s name. His Helena.
This had to be a mistake. Or someone’s cruel idea of a joke.
— Where did you get that photograph?! — Daniel shouted, pointing at the faded picture the child clutched tightly.
The boy flinched but didn’t let go. He whispered something that stopped Daniel’s world:
— She told me you’d find me one day… She promised.
Daniel stood frozen. That sentence shattered something inside him. His legs weakened.
— Who are you? — he managed to ask, barely above a whisper.
The child looked down, refusing to answer. But his silence said more than words.
Something about the boy’s features tugged at Daniel’s memory. The eyes, the shape of his jaw — hauntingly familiar.
— How old are you? — he asked, dreading the answer.
— Six… almost seven.
Daniel sat down heavily on a nearby bench. Six years ago… the same time Helena vanished from his life…
She had left suddenly, no real explanation, only silence. Could she have… kept something from him?
His eyes dropped to the photo. It was an old one — one Daniel hadn’t seen in years. Where had the boy gotten it?
— What’s your name, son?
— Theo. But Mommy used to call me Tem.
Daniel’s breath caught. Tem — a name he remembered from an old letter Helena once wrote him. She had joked:
“If we ever have a boy, I’d call him Tem.”
His hands trembled. The pieces were falling into place — painfully, unmistakably.
— Where have you been living? Who looked after you? — he asked gently.
— Aunt Sophie. From the children’s home. But she passed away. Before she died, she told me: if anything happened, I should come here. To find Mommy.
Daniel’s heart broke in two. He could no longer contain the storm inside. Slowly, he opened his arms.
The boy hesitated — then moved forward, nestling into his chest as if he belonged there.
And he did.
Daniel held him tightly, the pain and the love he had buried for five long years rushing out in silent sobs. All this time, his son had been so close… and he had no idea.