A boy sat crying loudly at his mother’s grave: a passing man approached him and learned something terrible
A gray morning. A light drizzle lazily trickled down the marble tombstones. Mist drifted over the cemetery.
At the far end of the alley, among fresh wreaths and dark, still damp soil, a small boy knelt. No older than seven. Thin, in a worn-out jacket, with cheeks wet from tears. He knelt at the grave, hugging the cold stone monument, resting his cheek against it.
He wasn’t screaming or calling out—just quietly, silently sobbing. His lips trembled, his shoulders shook. He stroked the ground, as if whispering something to it, to the earth, to his mother.
From the opposite side of the cemetery, a man was walking. Tall, stately, dressed in a suit—he had recently buried his own wife. His gaze was empty, his face weary. He was heading toward her grave when he noticed the boy.
A strange feeling crept into his heart. The man slowed down, then walked toward the child.
“I’m sorry…” he said, kneeling beside him. “I’m so sorry. Was this your mother?”
The boy didn’t answer. He only pressed closer to the grave.
“I… recently buried my wife,” the man continued. “It’s hard. To lose someone you loved more than life itself…” The man bent down, gently placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here alone. Is anyone helping you? Do you have somewhere to go?”
The boy slowly turned his head. His eyes were red, full of pain and fear. He looked at the man for a long time and then, almost in a whisper, said:
“Sir… my mom is alive. They buried her alive. I heard her. But no one listens to me. Please… help.”
The man recoiled.
Continuation
“She’s alive. She screamed… but no one heard. I tried to tell the adults, but they just hugged me and said I was sick… But she’s alive…” The boy’s voice trembled, but there was a strange calm in it.
The man stepped back, feeling an inexplicable fear stirring in his chest. He didn’t know what to say. After standing silently for a moment, he nodded:
“Listen… I’ll talk to someone. I promise. But right now… you shouldn’t be alone. Let me walk you home.”
The boy silently stood up. He didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of hope in his eyes.
Later that evening, the man told a friend about the incident. Both of them felt something in the boy’s words that struck a chord.
“His name is Matthew,” the friend later said, after some investigation. “His mother really did die. It was a tragic case. A heart attack. He was with her at home… didn’t understand what was happening for a long time. Trauma, stress. He’s now in foster care. He’s suffering from reactive psychosis caused by the shock. In such moments, a person can believe in the impossible. Especially a child. Especially after losing the person they loved most.”
The man sat in silence, remembering the desperate way the boy had said: “I heard her… she was screaming.”
