Catherine, sorting through old belongings in her son’s room, found a faded postcard tucked behind a stack of books. In a child’s scrawl, it read: *”Mummy, you’re my whole world!”* Clutching it to her chest, she felt her heart clench with sudden anguish. Leaning against the cold wall, she slid to the floor as tears, like a dam breaking, streamed down her face. The grief she’d buried so deep surged over her, drowning her anew.
Seven years had passed since she lost her only son, Thomas. Only now had she mustered the strength to touch his things, each one a relic of his memory. This simple postcard, so alive with his spirit, tore her apart. She longed to scream, to release the agony burning inside. She remembered—Thomas had just turned fifteen…
*”I’ll never see you grown. Never meet your children…”* she whispered, scanning the room. His favourite books lined the shelves; his old mobile and scattered notebooks lay on the desk. It all looked as though he’d just stepped out and would return any moment, grinning that bright grin of his.
Then came the memory of *that* day—the one that shattered her. Thomas had gone hiking with friends in the Lake District. A week passed peacefully, but that dawn, an inexplicable dread had woken her. The sky was barely touched by light when her pulse began to race. The silence in the house felt eerie, and she snatched up her phone.
*”I’ll call to check he’s all right,”* she told herself, dialling Thomas’ number. But only endless ringing answered. Again and again, no reply. By noon, after frantic calls to his mates, she learned the awful truth: her boy had fallen from a cliff at dawn. No one knew why he’d been alone there, but by the time his friends heard his cry, it was too late. Thomas was gone.
*”My boy… how do I live without you?”* Catherine murmured, staring into the void. *”What’s left for me?”*
She recalled the funeral. She and her husband had returned to a hollow, icy house, as if it too had died with their son. The chill between them grew, an invisible wall neither could breach. No surprise, then, when he packed his bags months later, muttering, *”There’s nothing keeping me here.”*
*”Nor me,”* she echoed, watching him leave. That moment, the ground vanished beneath her, plunging her into endless dark. She groped for something to hold onto—found nothing. A piece of her soul had died then. She’d tried to move on, even dated again, but the effort left her hollow.
Today, she’d lost her job. Rent was due, and the money wasn’t there. Opening the postcard once more, silent tears splashed onto its faded ink. The thought of ending it all crept in—no fear left, just pity.
*”Live for me, Mum.”* Thomas’ voice rang clear, so real she startled. It *couldn’t* be her imagining.
*”How?”* she choked, scanning the room for him. *”I’m alone.”*
*”You’re not. I’m here,”* the voice insisted. *”It hurts, seeing you trapped like this. If you go, I’ll never rest. Let me go, Mum. Live—pray for me. If you find joy, I’ll be joyful too. But if you suffer, so will I. Live for me… and for those who need you.”*
*”How can I be happy without you?”* Her sobs tightened her throat.
*”You must. Give all the love you saved for me to others. My time was short—it was meant to be. Yours is to bring someone else happiness.”*
*”Who?”* she cried out—but no answer came. The room spun, darkness swallowing her until—she blinked awake, still on the floor, the postcard in her grip. Sunlight warmed her face, and for the first time in years, peace settled in her chest. The words echoed: *”Live for me, Mum.”*
That day, she began packing Thomas’ things. With each item, she whispered goodbye, yet felt him near. She donated them to neighbours with teens, and the weight in her chest eased slightly. Pushing open the window, she inhaled crisp autumn air, thick with fallen leaves, squinting against the golden light.
The next morning, she visited the cemetery. A fine drizzle fell, the cold seeping into her bones—
