In an old, quiet apartment complex nestled in the heart of Mexico City, Juan Pérez, a 34-year-old civil engineer, lived a life that echoed with the weight of loss. His young son, Diego, had just turned one, and the apartment, with its weathered walls and worn tiles, seemed to hold the memories of another time—one that included his wife, Claudia, who had passed away due to complications during childbirth.

For Juan, the loss of Claudia had left a permanent scar, one that only deepened as he tried to balance his grief with the demands of single fatherhood. Diego, a quiet child, rarely smiled or cried, and he had a strange habit that began to unsettle Juan: he kept staring at the wall.

It had been a year since Claudia’s death, and Juan’s life had become a daily routine: work during the day, then rush home to care for Diego. He followed a strict schedule—bathe, feed, and put Diego to bed. He worked late into the nights, his typing the only sound that broke the stillness of the apartment.

But one Saturday morning, something happened that would change everything.

Juan was picking up toys in Diego’s room when he noticed his son standing motionless in a corner, his face pressed against the wall. At first, he thought it was just a child’s odd behavior. “It’s probably nothing,” he reassured himself, but the next day, the same thing happened.

When Juan returned home from work, Diego was once again standing silently against the wall, not responding to his calls. This time, Juan felt a flicker of concern. He tried to reassure himself, thinking it was just a phase, but something didn’t sit right.

As the days passed, Diego’s behavior became more consistent. Every few hours, he would go to the corner, press his face against the wall, and remain there for what seemed like minutes, before walking away, seemingly unfazed.

Juan began to feel a rising sense of unease. His son was unusually quiet, not stubborn or mischievous, but absorbed in a world that Juan couldn’t see. He tried everything—calling Diego, making noises, even bringing in his favorite toys—but nothing worked. Diego’s silence worried him more than he cared to admit.

Then, on the third day, Juan made a decision: he would observe more closely. That night, as Diego once again stood before the wall, Juan quietly approached and sat beside him. In the dim light, he heard his son whisper softly:

“Mommy is here.”

Juan froze. His heart skipped a beat. Diego’s voice was small and trembling, as if he were speaking to someone invisible. Juan’s mind raced. He couldn’t believe it. The words struck him like a cold wind. His wife, Claudia… could it be possible?

He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper, “Diego, what did you say? Who’s here?”

Diego turned to look at him with empty, distant eyes, then went back to playing as if nothing had happened. The words haunted Juan, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was at play. He wasn’t a believer in the supernatural, but his grief, combined with his son’s strange behavior, made him question everything.

The next morning, Juan took Diego to see Dr. Ana Morales, the pediatrician, just to be sure. After a thorough check-up, the doctor assured him that Diego was healthy and there were no signs of illness.

“Maybe it’s just a phase, a reaction to the loss of his mother,” Dr. Morales suggested. “But I recommend seeing a child psychologist for a more in-depth evaluation.”

Juan agreed, feeling a weight on his chest. He took Diego to a psychologist, Mariana Torres, who worked at a nearby center. Dr. Torres, a kind woman in her late 30s, approached Diego gently.

“Diego, do you like being in the corner? What do you see there?”

Diego remained silent for a moment before drawing a picture on a piece of paper. The image was blurry but unmistakable—a woman next to a child.

“It’s Mom,” Diego said softly.

Juan, sitting outside the room, felt his heart ache. The psychologist explained, “Children often express their grief and nostalgia in unusual ways. Diego may be imagining his mother because he doesn’t have clear memories of her.”

Juan’s mind reeled. He hadn’t realized just how deeply the loss of Claudia had affected Diego. He hadn’t understood that Diego, at just one year old, might already be missing her in ways he couldn’t even express.

But as Juan listened to Dr. Torres, he realized something important: love, even in its absence, could still be felt. The love Claudia had left behind was still with them, in ways he hadn’t fully grasped. He would learn to listen, to watch closely, and to be there for his son as he navigated his grief—just as he had to navigate his own.

And in that quiet moment of understanding, he realized that Diego’s strange behavior wasn’t just a cry for attention—it was a reminder of how deeply love can endure, even when the one we love is gone.