But days turned into weeks. Rain or shine, the boy returned. Always the same grave. Always the same cries.<\/p>\n
The cemetery\u2019s groundskeeper, growing uneasy with the boy\u2019s daily anguish, finally decided to call the police.<\/p>\n
A young officer arrived and approached the child with care.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey there,\u201d he said softly.<\/p>\n
The boy turned. His cheeks were streaked with dried tears, and his eyes held a haunted, far-too-grown-up look.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you know how to tell if someone\u2019s still breathing underground?\u201d the boy asked suddenly.<\/p>\n
The officer blinked, taken aback.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s\u2026 not something you should be worried about.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy mom didn\u2019t fall asleep at the wheel,\u201d the boy whispered. \u201cThey said she did\u2014but she was always careful. And they never let me see her. Not even once.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The officer glanced down at the grave. The soil was freshly turned. A shovel rested nearby, as if someone had tried to dig.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho told you about the accident?\u201d the officer asked.<\/p>\n