On Christmas Eve, exhausted and emotionally drained, I sat on the kitchen floor in the dim light, feeling hollowed out by loss. That was when I heard a soft sound at the back door. When I opened it, Cole stood there—thinner, dirt-smudged, but unmistakably himself. Gently, he placed something at my feet: a small glass ornament my mother loved and always insisted be placed front and center on the tree.
Cole didn’t linger. Instead, he turned and began walking away, pausing just long enough to glance back as if to make sure I was following. Without stopping to think, I pulled on shoes and followed him through the cold night streets. He led me past familiar blocks and down a quiet road I hadn’t visited in years—toward the house where my mother and I once lived when I was a child. There, an elderly woman opened the door before I could even knock. She recognized Cole immediately, explaining that he had been visiting her porch for days. As we spoke, she gently invited me inside, offering warmth, tea, and a place to sit. In that simple kindness, I found something I hadn’t realized I needed: understanding without explanation.
We spent the evening talking softly, sharing stories, and allowing memories to exist without fear. Cole curled beside me, content and calm. When I returned home later that night, I finished decorating the tree, placing my mother’s favorite ornament where she always had. The house was still quiet, but it no longer felt empty. It felt full—of love, of remembrance, and of the gentle reassurance that grief doesn’t erase connection. Sometimes, healing doesn’t arrive loudly or all at once. Sometimes, it comes quietly, guided by loyalty, memory, and a reminder that even in loss, we are not as alone as we think.