My son was sitting up in bed, whispering into the dark as if in conversation. My heart faltered for a moment, but I soon saw his expression was not one of fear, but of quiet focus.
He looked at me, his eyes heavy with sleep, and gestured to the rocking chair in the corner. "Mommy, the big man sits there. He sings." The chair was empty, yet it swayed gently, as if its occupant had just stepped away.
The next morning, I cautiously asked him about our nighttime visitor. He described a kind, older man who wore "a hat like the ones in Grandpa's pictures." His words caught in my memory. My father had died before my son was born, and a specific photograph of him in that distinct hat had been tucked away for years.
Driven by a mix of curiosity and emotion, I brought out the old family album. Without a word of guidance, my son turned the pages, then stopped and pointed decisively. "That's him, Mommy. That's the man who sings." It was my father, smiling beneath his wide-brimmed hat. My son seemed comforted, as if he had found a gentle guardian.
That night, as I tucked him in, a sense of peace settled over me. Whether it was a child's vivid imagination, a mysterious connection, or something more, it had brought him solace, not fear. I kissed his forehead and whispered, "If someone's watching over you, then we're lucky."
For the first time in weeks, he slept soundly through the night—and the rocking chair remained perfectly still.
