PART 2: He whispered her name without realizing it, then straightened abruptly as the boy’s eyes opened. They were dark and wary, carrying a tired awareness that made him look older than his years. The child did not scramble away or cry out, but instead drew the photograph closer and murmured softly, his voice hoarse from sleep and cold.
“I am sorry, Mom. I did not mean to fall asleep here.”
The words struck David with such force that he felt dizzy. He crouched slowly, keeping his movements deliberate, afraid that sudden motion might frighten the child or shatter the fragile moment.
“What did you say?” he asked, his voice carefully controlled though his hands trembled slightly.
The boy swallowed and repeated himself, quieter this time, as though apologizing to the air itself. “I am sorry, Mom.”
David forced himself to breathe evenly before speaking again. “This is not your mother’s grave,” he said gently, though every instinct in him rebelled against the calmness of his tone.
The boy shook his head once, stubborn but not angry. “It is,” he replied. “Her name is Lucinda. She used to come see me.”
David reached out slowly, gesturing toward the photograph. The boy hesitated only a moment before handing it over, watching David’s face closely as if studying every reaction for danger.
“Where did you get this?” David asked, unable to hide the strain in his voice.
