For the past five years, Daniel had quietly visited his late wife Helena’s grave every February—leave flowers, say a few words, and go.

But this time, something stopped him.

A young boy, maybe six, was curled up on the headstone, clutching an old photo and whispering, “Forgive me, Mommy…”

Confused and angry, Daniel demanded to know what the child was doing there. But then the boy looked up and said softly, “She said you would find me.”

Daniel froze.

The photo was of Helena. The boy’s face—his eyes, his cheekbones—it all felt eerily familiar.

“How old are you?” Daniel asked.

“Six. Almost seven.”

The timing fit. Right after Helena left.

The boy said his name was Theo, but his mom used to call him Tem. A name Daniel remembered from a letter—Helena had once joked that if they ever had a son, she’d name him Tem.

Theo explained that his aunt from the orphanage raised him, but after she passed, he came to the only place he knew: his mom’s grave.

Daniel couldn’t hold back. He opened his arms, and the boy ran into them.

In that moment, Daniel understood—he hadn’t just lost Helena. He’d been missing a part of her all along.

Now, by a twist of fate, they had found each other. Father and son. At last.