My son died when he was only six years old. My husband didn’t shed a single tear. “Stop clinging to a dead child,” he said coldly. Still, I went to my son’s grave every day. One afternoon, in the silence of the cemetery, I heard a small voice behind me say: “Mommy…”. Trembling, I turned around. And there he was… my son, the boy who was supposed to be dead.
The day Mariana heard her dead son calling her from among the tombs, she felt that the whole world was splitting before her eyes. For a year he had gone to the park without missing a single day. If the sun rose, he would arrive before noon with fresh flowers and a bottle of water…
