A biting February wind howled over the old cemetery in the Chicago suburbs, chasing brittle leaves between the leaning crosses and modest headstones. Andrew Miller walked with a steady, purposeful stride, his tall frame wrapped in a warm, dark overcoat, his hands buried deep in its pockets. His face remained a mask of calm, almost indifferent, though a storm of thoughts churned within him.

As he did every year, he had come here to perform his quiet ritual—to visit the grave of his wife, Eleanor. Five years had passed since she was gone, and while the outward signs of mourning had long since faded, inside, Andrew remained fractured. That day had stolen not only the woman he loved but also the warmth of their Lincoln Park brownstone, the joy of shared evenings over cups of tea, and the invisible tether that had kept him anchored to the world.

He stopped before a humble slab of gray granite. Eleanor’s name was engraved in clean, clear letters, alongside the dates of her life, which now seemed so impossibly distant. Andrew stared at the inscription in silence, feeling the chill seep through his clothes.

He was not a man who spoke his feelings aloud.

— It’s been five years now.

He spoke the words quietly, expecting no reply. It was a foolish habit, but every time he stood here, it felt as if Eleanor could still hear his whisper, as if the wind carried her breath up from the frozen earth.

Perhaps that was why he had never truly been able to let her go. Closing his eyes, Andrew took a deep breath, trying to wall off the emptiness that constricted his chest. But suddenly, his thoughts were shattered by a soft rustling sound.

Andrew frowned and turned his head. And that’s when he saw him.

On Eleanor’s grave, wrapped in an old, tattered blanket, lay a small boy. He couldn’t have been more than six. His thin body shivered from the cold, and in his small hands, he clutched a yellowed photograph.

Andrew froze, unable to believe his eyes. The child was asleep. Asleep, directly on the memorial stone of his wife.

— What in the world? — he muttered and took a careful step closer, his boots crunching on the frosted gravel. As he approached, he got a better look at the boy: he was dressed in a thin jacket, clearly inadequate for the harsh winter weather.

His hair was tousled by the wind, his skin pale from the cold.

— Hey, kid! — Andrew called out, his voice firm but not harsh. The boy didn’t stir.

— Wake up! — He gently touched the boy’s shoulder. The child flinched, drew a sharp breath, and opened a pair of large, dark eyes. At first, the boy blinked in confusion, then his gaze focused on Andrew.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. The boy clutched the photograph tighter and cast a quick glance at the stone beneath him. His lips trembled, and he whispered:

— Mom!

Andrew felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

— What did you say? — he asked again.

The boy swallowed and lowered his eyes. His slender shoulders slumped.

— I’m sorry, Mom. I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep here, — he added quietly.

Andrew’s heart clenched.

— Who are you? — he asked, but the boy remained silent, only pressing the photograph more tightly to his chest as if it could save him.

Andrew frowned and reached out to take the picture. The boy tried to resist, but he had no strength. When Andrew looked at the photo, his breath caught in his throat.

It was Eleanor. Eleanor, smiling, with her arms around this little boy.

— Where did you get this? — Andrew’s voice trembled with disbelief.

The boy shrank back.

— She gave it to me, — he whispered.

Andrew’s heart hammered against his ribs.

— That’s impossible, — he choked out.

The little boy lifted his head, his sad eyes meeting Andrew’s gaze.

— It is possible. Mom gave it to me before she went away.

Andrew felt the world tilt on its axis. Eleanor had never told him about this boy. Never.

Who was he? And why was he sleeping on her grave as if she were truly his mother? The silence between them grew heavy, as thick as the winter fog. Andrew clutched the photograph of Eleanor, but his mind refused to accept what was happening. The boy looked at him with apprehension, as if expecting to be chased away.

A wave of irritation, mixed with a deep, unsettling anxiety, rose in Andrew’s chest. He looked again at the boy—Noah, he would later learn was his name—standing before him, small and defenseless, with those large eyes that seemed far too old for his years. The boy was trembling, his cheeks red from the frost, his lips chapped. Andrew’s brow furrowed.