Samuel was only fifteen when the apartment fell silent.

The world outside kept moving, but inside, everything felt paused—like time itself had stopped the day Sarah was gone.

He stood by the window where she used to sit, a pen pressed lightly against his lips, mimicking the little habit she had when she was deep in thought. It was one of the small things he clung to, a thread connecting him to her memory.

Her name echoed in his mind—Sarah.
Afraid of forgetting, he began to draw.

Line by line.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if each stroke of the pen could bring her back, just a little.

He remembered her soft eyes, her gentle smile, the quiet warmth she carried in every glance.
His hand trembled, but he didn’t stop.

When he finally stepped back, he studied the portrait.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was her.

His eyes glistened as he leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper:
“I drew this for you, Mom… in case you can see it.”

And in that still, quiet room, for a fleeting moment, it almost felt like she could.