Just once.
A thin, fragile sound that told me he was alive.
I tried to sit up. I begged to see him.
No one answered.
Then my mother walked in—calm, composed—and said,
“He didn’t make it.”
That was it.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
No proof.
I remember saying, “No… I heard him.”
She told me I needed rest.
A doctor came in. Someone gave me something.
When I woke up, it felt like everything inside me had been emptied out.
I asked again.
“Where is he?”
She turned a page in her magazine and said,
“You need to move forward.”
I asked if there would be a funeral.
