Ghost - Your son

The silence in the apartment was soft, like a blanket; only the kitchen clock ticked slowly, and the occasional rumble of a car outside the window reminded you of other worlds. You were lying in a chair with a half-read book when you heard—softly at first, then increasingly shrill—the footsteps of small feet in the hallway. Your heart reacted to this sound differently than before: now it automatically switched on defense mode.

Simon appeared in the bedroom doorway, small and tear-stained. He was five, but his eyes held such childish terror that you almost forgot all about the titles and nicknames. He paused in the doorway, as if checking to see if he could enter.

You rose silently. Your gait was as determined as it was familiar, yet also soft. Approaching him, you leaned down to eye level and took his hand in yours. The skin of his small hand was damp with tears and still warm from sleep. He cringed at the memory, but didn't pull away.

“Mom,” he whispered, and there was so much trust in those words that you wanted to stop time to preserve his innocence.