My son is dead, but my 5-year-old daughter said she saw him at the neighbor’s window. When I knocked on their door, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

My son Lucas was killed a month ago. He was only eight years old.

A motorist didn’t see him while he was cycling home from school, and he simply disappeared.

From that day on, life became blurry and colorless, an endless grayness. The house seemed heavier, as if its walls were in mourning.

Sometimes I find myself in her room, gazing at the half-assembled Lego set on her desk. Her books are still open, and the faint scent of her shampoo lingers on her pillow. It’s like reliving a memory that refuses to fade.

The pain gnaws at me in waves. Some mornings, I struggle to get up. Other days, I force myself to smile, prepare breakfast, and act as if I were still a whole person.

My husband, Ethan, tries to be strong for us, even though I see the sadness in his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking at him. He works longer hours now, and when he comes home, he hugs our daughter a little tighter than before. He doesn’t talk about Lucas, but I hear the silence that has replaced his old laughter.

And then there’s Ella… my little girl, so lively and curious. She’s only five, too young to understand death, but old enough to feel the void it leaves. Sometimes she still asks questions about her brother.

“Mom, is Lucas with the angels?” she whispers before going to bed.

“They’re taking care of him,” I always tell him. “He’s safe now.”

But saying that, I’m having trouble breathing because the pain is so intense.

All I have left is Ethan and Ella, and even when existence is painful, I remind myself that I have to hold on for them. But a week ago, things started to change.

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon. She was at the kitchen table, coloring with her colored pencils, while I stood by the sink, pretending to wash the dishes I had already scrubbed twice.