Three years ago, Mark buried his son without a body.

His seven-year-old son had vanished at sea during a storm. The boat capsized, and the waves swallowed everything in an instant.

Rescuers searched for weeks: divers scoured the ocean floor, helicopters circled above, police filed every report they could. Yet there was nothing—no trace, no clothing, no body. Finally, an official death certificate was signed, and the world expected Mark to move on.

But how could you move on when you don’t know where your son is?

Mark couldn’t. He kept breathing, working, signing contracts, expanding his fortune—but inside, everything froze. Money lost its appeal, houses felt hollow, faces blurred into nothing. There was a hole in his chest that neither time nor wealth could fill. Until one ordinary Thursday.

Mark wandered aimlessly through a makeshift market on the outskirts of town. The buzz of voices, the smell of food, the dust at his feet—he didn’t even remember why he was there. Then, through the noise, a sound caught his ear. A faint, metallic melody.

Mark’s heart skipped a beat.

He recognized it. He knew it, note by note, because he had once sung it to a composer—a lullaby for his son, Alex. The melody had been embedded in a custom-made wristwatch, a one-of-a-kind gift for his child.

Mark turned abruptly, walking toward the sound, pushing past people, lost to everything around him. And there he saw a boy, about nine, thin and dirty, wearing a torn T-shirt. On his wrist was a child’s watch—scratched, faded, but still playing that same melody.

Mark sank slowly to his knees, reaching out with trembling hands to take the boy’s wrist, afraid the moment would vanish.

“Calm down… I won’t hurt you,” Mark said hoarsely. “This watch… where did you get it?”

The boy flinched, quickly covering the watch with his other hand, as if protecting it like the most precious thing he owned.

Then, in a quiet voice, the boy said something that struck Mark to his core.

“It’s a gift from Dad.”

Mark froze.

“What… Dad?” he stammered.

“The one who found the boy at sea,” the child continued. “He said… there was a storm. The boy was alive, but very weak. They brought him ashore. Dad said he held onto this watch the whole time and wouldn’t let go.”

Mark could barely breathe.

“And then…” the boy looked down, “they had no money. None. They couldn’t keep the child, so they gave him to an orphanage. But Dad kept the watch… and later, he gave it to me.”

Mark’s ears rang. He looked at the boy, but all he could see was the storm, the boy, his son. Alive.

For three years, Mark had buried a child who hadn’t died. And now, the hope he’d long buried began to rise: his son was still out there.