The house was dark, and the night pressed in like a weight. Jane Wiley lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Her thoughts twisted and turned like restless waves, never still. For two years, sleep had eluded her. Every time she closed her eyes, the memories came flooding back. The sound of John’s laughter, his small feet running down the hallway, his voice calling out to her. Those memories haunted her—echoes of a life she could never have again.
Beside her, Sean slept soundly, his back turned to her. He slept more now, but not like he used to. Sean had changed too. The man she had married—the man who had once been so full of life—had become distant, quiet, locked away in his grief. It wasn’t his fault. They had both lost John, but they grieved differently. Sean shut it all away, building walls around his pain. Jane, on the other hand, couldn’t escape it. Her grief was everywhere—suffocating her.
She turned her head to glance at the clock on the nightstand. The red numbers glowed faintly in the dark. 3:12 a.m. She sighed, pushing back the covers and slipping out of bed, careful not to wake Sean. She had been restless all night, her mind too clouded with thoughts she couldn’t control. Her feet were silent on the wooden floor as she made her way down the hall, past the door to John’s room.
The door was closed, as it had been for nearly two years. She hadn’t been able to go inside since they had finally cleared it out months after the accident. Sean had done most of it, but even then, the memories had been too much for him. Jane remembered the way he’d come out of the room that day, his eyes red, his shoulders slumped. They had both cried in silence. They hadn’t talked much about John since then. It hurt too much.
Her hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment as she passed, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it. She never could. The pain was still too raw.
In the kitchen, she went through the familiar motions of brewing coffee, the quiet routine a small comfort in the overwhelming stillness of the house. The kitchen had once been filled with life—John’s voice filling the air, the clatter of dishes, the occasional squeals of delight when she let him sneak a cookie before dinner. Those days were gone now, replaced by silence, grief, and the crushing weight of loss.
As the coffee brewed, she stood by the window, staring out into the dark. The street outside was empty, the world still sleeping. A few faint stars glittered in the sky, barely visible through the city lights. For a moment, Jane allowed herself to remember—really remember.
John had been their miracle. They had tried for years to have a child, and when Jane had finally gotten pregnant, it had felt like all of their dreams had come true. She remembered the day John was born—the rush to the hospital, the long hours of labor, the overwhelming joy when she held him for the first time. He had been perfect. Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes, and a soft little cry that had filled the room with love.
Jane smiled faintly, but the smile faded quickly as the darker memories flooded in. The accident. The day she got the call from the school. It had been an ordinary day—too ordinary, she thought now. She had been doing laundry, folding John’s tiny shirts, thinking about what to make for dinner. Then the phone had rung, and her world had shattered.
“Mrs. Wiley, your son was involved in an accident,” the voice on the other end of the line had said. She remembered the chill that had run down her spine, the way her heart had stopped for a moment as she listened to the principal’s calm, measured tone.
They had rushed to the hospital, but it was too late. The doctors had tried—oh, how they had tried. But there was nothing they could do. The venom from the bee stings had overwhelmed John’s small body, sending him into anaphylactic shock. He hadn’t stood a chance.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memories away. She had replayed that day in her mind so many times, each detail seared into her memory, but it didn’t change anything. John was gone, and no amount of remembering could bring him back.
The coffee maker beeped, pulling her out of her thoughts. She poured herself a cup and sat down at the kitchen table, the steam rising in gentle curls from the mug. The quiet was oppressive. She could feel it pressing in on her from all sides, suffocating her. She needed to do something, anything, to escape it.
Then came the knock.
It was soft at first, so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. But there it was—a knock, deliberate and measured, cutting through the stillness. Jane froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Who could be knocking at this hour?
The knock came again, a little louder this time. And then, something else—a voice.
“Mom? It’s me.”
Jane’s blood ran cold. Her hands shook as she set the coffee cup down, her eyes wide with disbelief. The voice was faint, barely more than a whisper, but it was unmistakable. A child’s voice. John’s voice.
Her heart pounded in her chest, a wild, uncontrollable rhythm. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible. John was gone. She knew that. She knew it with every fiber of her being. And yet…
“Mom? It’s me,” the voice repeated, soft and pleading.
Jane’s legs felt weak beneath her as she stood, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. She moved toward the front door, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Every rational thought in her mind screamed that this was impossible, that she was imagining it. But something deeper, something more primal, told her she had to open the door.
Her fingers shook as she turned the knob, pulling the door open slowly, half expecting—half hoping—to see her son standing there.
But there was no one.
The street outside was quiet, bathed in the pale light of the early morning. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves rustling softly. The world was peaceful, still. There was no sign of anyone, no sign of the child who had spoken her name.
Jane stepped onto the porch, her eyes scanning the empty street. “Hello?” she called out, her voice trembling. “Is someone there?”
Silence.
She looked down, and that’s when she saw it—a small envelope lying on the welcome mat. Her name and Sean’s were scrawled across the front in neat, unfamiliar handwriting: Jane and Sean Wiley.
Her breath hitched as she bent down to pick it up, her fingers trembling as she turned it over in her hands. She looked around again, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever had left it, but there was no one. The street was empty, the world eerily still.
She stepped back inside and closed the door, her heart pounding. The envelope felt heavy in her hand, as though it carried more than just paper. Her hands shook as she opened it, pulling out a single slip of paper. Written in neat, precise handwriting was an address:
813 Atwood Avenue.
Jane stared at the paper, her mind racing. The address meant nothing to her. She didn’t know anyone who lived on Atwood Avenue, and she had no reason to go there. But the letter, the voice—it all felt too strange to ignore.
The soft sound of footsteps behind her made her jump, and she turned to see Sean standing in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Jane? What are you doing up?” he asked, his voice groggy with sleep.
She swallowed hard, holding up the envelope. “Someone knocked on the door.”
Sean frowned, glancing at the envelope in her hand. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “There was no one there. Just this.”
She handed him the slip of paper with the address.
Sean took it, his brow furrowing as he read it. “813 Atwood Avenue? Do we know anyone there?”
Jane shook her head. “No. But… I heard something before I opened the door. A voice.”
Sean looked at her, his concern deepening. “A voice?”
“A child’s voice,” Jane said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It… it sounded like John.”
Sean’s eyes widened, and he stepped toward her, his face pale. “Jane, we’ve talked about this. You know that sometimes, after a loss, people hear things that aren’t really there. Grief can—”
“I know what I heard,” Jane interrupted, her voice rising. “I’m not imagining this, Sean. I heard someone knock, and then I heard his voice. I know it sounds crazy, but it was real.”
Sean was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. He was the rational one, always trying to make sense of things, to explain away what couldn’t be explained. He had been her rock through the darkest days, but even he had his limits.
Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay. Let’s at least try to figure out what this address is.”
They sat down at the computer together, the slip of paper lying between them on the table. Sean typed the address into the search bar, and they waited as the results loaded. There were a few listings—houses for sale, some old buildings—but one entry caught Jane’s eye.
Atwood Children’s Home.
Her heart skipped a beat. “That’s it,” she whispered, leaning closer to the screen. “That’s where we need to go.”
Sean glanced at her, his skepticism clear. “A foster home? You think this has something to do with the knock on the door?”
“I don’t know,” Jane admitted, her voice soft. “But we have to find out.”
Sean didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, finally, he nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”
The drive to Atwood Avenue was tense, the silence between them thick and heavy. Jane stared out the window, her mind swirling with a mixture of anticipation and fear. Sean’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles white. Neither of them spoke, but the weight of what they were about to face hung in the air.
When they pulled up in front of the address, Jane’s breath caught in her throat. The foster home was an old, sprawling building, its windows dark and shuttered. A sign out front read Atwood Children’s Home, the paint peeling and faded.
They hesitated before getting out of the car, sharing a glance that spoke of their mutual unease.
“I don’t like this,” Sean murmured, his voice low. “It feels wrong.”
Jane nodded, her pulse quickening. But she couldn’t turn back now. They had come this far, and she needed to know why they had been led here—what connection, if any, this place had to the voice she had heard.
They walked up to the door and rang the bell. A moment later, an older woman answered. She had kind eyes and graying hair tied back in a neat bun. Her gaze flickered between Jane and Sean, a small frown forming on her face.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice soft and polite.
Jane hesitated. “We… we received a note with this address on it.”
The woman’s eyes widened slightly, and she stepped aside to let them in. “Come with me,” she said, leading them down a dimly lit hallway. “I think I know why you’re here.”
They followed her into a small office, where she gestured for them to sit. “I’m Mia,” the woman introduced herself. “I run the home.”
Jane’s mind was racing. There was something about this place—something strange and unsettling—but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
Mia’s gaze was steady as she spoke. “There’s a boy here named Simon. He’s… special. He doesn’t talk much, except to his imaginary friend. He believes his friend helps him choose his adoptive family.”
Sean raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. “Imaginary friend?”
Mia nodded. “He’s very particular. He won’t go with just anyone.”
Jane felt a strange pull, a sense of urgency building inside her. “Can we meet him?”
Mia hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Of course.”
They were led into a small playroom, where a boy of about seven sat quietly, surrounded by toys. His back was to them, but as they entered, he turned and looked up, his eyes wide and curious.
Jane’s heart skipped a beat. There was something about him—something familiar, though she couldn’t explain why.
Simon’s eyes met hers, and for a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then, in a voice that was soft but clear, he spoke.
“My friend says you’re good people. He says you don’t have to be alone anymore.”
Jane’s breath caught in her throat. Sean froze beside her, his hand gripping hers tightly.
“Your friend?” Sean asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Simon nodded, his expression calm and serious. “He says his name is John.”
Jane’s vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She looked at Sean, whose face was pale with shock. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning.
It was all the confirmation Jane needed. She knew then why she had been brought here. She knew why she had heard the knock on the door.
John was gone, but he hadn’t left her. He had led her to Simon, to the boy who needed them as much as they needed him.
It wasn’t the reunion she had dreamed of, but it was something more—a new beginning, guided by the love of a son she had never truly lost.
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