The air was thick with memories as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the small park where your mother sat on the swing. It had been six years since the day Simon had disappeared from their lives—six years since your mother had lost her everything. You were just a child then, barely old enough to grasp the magnitude of the loss, but you remembered the days that followed: the empty space at the dinner table, the silent phone calls, the muffled tears.

Today was different. It was the anniversary of Simon’s absence, and as you played nearby, your mother sat lost in thought, her gaze distant, perhaps searching for echoes of a past that felt like a dream. You couldn’t understand why she seemed so captivated by the fading light, but you could feel her heart aching beneath the surface.

And then, out of nowhere, a sound broke through the stillness. A whistle—a sharp, familiar note that echoed through the air. You paused, a shiver of recognition creeping up your spine. It was the very same whistle Simon had used, the one your mother always said was his signature. She had whispered about it so often, telling you that it was a way for him to call her home, a sound that once filled their days with laughter and love.

“Did you hear that?” your mother asked, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with a mix of hope and disbelief.

You nodded, your heart racing as you turned to face the direction of the sound. There he was—Simon. Standing a few feet away, just beyond the playground, bathed in the soft light of dusk. He looked almost ethereal, as if he had stepped out of a storybook. His features were familiar yet distant, the years melting away in the glow of the moment.