I still remember the phone call that shattered my world. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer had said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Your husband was in a fatal accident. We were unable to recover his body from the wreckage.”

I had collapsed to the floor, my heart pounding against my ribs, my breath coming in shallow gasps. How could it be real? How could James, the love of my life, the father of our little Emily, be gone just like that?

Days turned into weeks, and the reality of his absence settled like a heavy fog over our home. Emily, too young to fully understand, would ask, “When is Daddy coming home?” Each time, my heart broke a little more.

Then, one night, everything changed.

I had just tucked Emily into bed, her tiny arms wrapped around the stuffed bear James had given her. She was asleep within minutes, her steady breathing a small comfort in the silence of the house. I walked to my bedroom, exhausted, but a strange feeling crept over me—an unease I couldn’t explain.

And then, I heard it.

A voice. Low, familiar.

I froze. It was coming from Emily’s room.

My chest tightened as I strained to listen. The voice was unmistakable. James.

My mind raced. Was I dreaming? Was this my grief playing tricks on me? I slowly stepped toward the door, my heart hammering so loudly I feared it would wake Emily.

I pushed the door open just enough to see inside.

Emily was sitting up, her eyes wide and bright, as if she was speaking to someone. “Daddy, will you stay with me until I fall asleep?” she whispered.

And then, clear as day, I heard it again. “Of course, sweetheart. I’m always here.”

I gasped, slapping a hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming. The voice was real. It wasn’t a memory, wasn’t an echo from the past. It was James.

Trembling, I flicked on the light.

The room was empty.

Emily blinked at me sleepily. “Mommy, why did you turn the light on?”

I couldn’t answer. My gaze darted around the room, searching for something—anything—that could explain what I had just heard.

“Sweetheart,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper, “who were you talking to?”

Emily yawned and snuggled deeper under her covers. “Daddy. He comes to say goodnight to me every night.”

A chill ran down my spine. I wanted to believe it was just a child’s imagination, but the voice… it had been his.

That night, I barely slept. My mind replayed the moment over and over. I knew I had heard James. And if Emily had been speaking to him all this time… what did it mean?

I had to find out.

So the next night, I waited.