One night, I found my son sitting up in bed, whispering into the dark. Heart pounding, I crept closer. He wasn’t scared—just peaceful. “Mommy, the big man sits there. He sings,” he said, pointing to the rocking chair. It swayed gently, as if someone had just risen.

Morning came. I asked softly about the “big man.” My son said he was kind, old, wore “a hat like Grandpa’s pictures.” My father died before my son was born. He’d never seen that wide-brimmed hat.

I pulled out an old album. Without prompting, my son flipped pages and stopped. “That’s him, Mommy. The man who sings.” It was my father, smiling beneath the hat.

No fear in my son’s eyes—only comfort.

That night, tucking him in, peace settled over me. Imagination, memory, or something more—whatever it was, it brought warmth. I kissed his forehead. “If someone’s watching over you, we’re lucky.”

He slept soundly. The rocking chair stayed still.