I woke up at 3 a.m., thirsty, and shuffled to the kitchen for water. The house was silent until my son’s voice called, “Mom, can you turn off the light?” Without thinking, I switched off his lamp and returned to bed. Then it hit me—my son wasn’t home. He was camping with friends. My heart raced. Who had spoken? Trembling, I returned to his room. The door was ajar, the room empty, bed made, no sign of anyone. The voice had been so clear, so like his.

On the nightstand, I saw a framed photo of us from years ago, glowing faintly in the hallway light. It wasn’t him I’d heard, but a memory—a reminder of how fast time slips away. I sat on his bed, clutching the photo, and whispered, “I love you. I’ll always be here.” The next morning, when he returned, I hugged him tighter, holding onto the moment. I didn’t mention the voice, but it felt like a sign to cherish every ordinary second, knowing one day, those memories might be all I have left.