Then I noticed something on his nightstand: a small framed photo of him and me, taken when he was little. The light from the hallway reflected softly on the glass.
And in that moment, I understood.
Maybe it wasn’t my son I had heard, but a memory — a reminder of how quickly time passes, how precious each fleeting moment truly is.
I sat on the edge of his bed, holding the photo, and whispered into the quiet room, “I love you. I’ll always be here.”
The next morning, when my son returned from his trip, I hugged him a little tighter, a little longer.
I didn’t tell him about the voice, but I knew deep in my heart that it was a sign: to cherish every ordinary moment, because one day, those voices and memories are all we’ll have left.
