People first noticed the boy in the cemetery at the start of May. He looked about ten years old. Every single day, he came to the same grave. He’d sit on the cold ground, leaning against the stone, shouting up at the sky:

“She’s alive! She’s not buried here!”

Visitors watched him with pity. They all thought the same thing — he was grieving, unable to accept his loss. They figured he’d eventually come to terms with the fact his mother was gone.

But a week passed, then another, and the boy kept showing up. Rain or shine. The cemetery caretaker grew tired of the shouting. One day, he called the police.

A young officer arrived and approached the boy carefully.

“Hi there,” he said gently.

The boy flinched but looked up. His face was tear-streaked and fragile, yet his eyes held a strange maturity.

“Do you know how you can tell if someone is breathing underground?” he asked quietly.

The officer had no answer.

“They said Mom fell asleep at the wheel. But she was never tired. Never!” the boy whispered. “And they never let me say goodbye…”

The policeman glanced at the grave. The earth was loose, freshly turned. Nearby lay a shovel.

“Who told you that?” he asked.