The father grabbed the girl’s shoulders, then stopped himself before he scared her.

“What are their names?”

The girl blinked.

“They don’t let us use names there.”

The mother’s hope started to crack.

Then the girl looked back at the photo.

“But the quiet one cries when it rains.”

The mother froze.

Noah had always cried during storms.

The girl pointed to the second boy.

“And that one sings to him.”

The father’s face went white.

Liam used to sing their mother’s lullaby when Noah was scared.

No one knew that.

No one.

The mother fell to her knees in front of the girl.

“What lullaby?”

The girl sang three soft notes.

The mother broke.

A sound came out of her so painful the father had to hold the headstone to stay standing.

Then the girl reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny red mitten.

Old.

Worn.

Faded.

The mother screamed into her hand.

“That was Liam’s.”

The father stared at the mitten like the grave had opened.

“We buried that with him.”

The girl shook her head.

“No. He gave it to me.”

The father’s eyes filled with rage and disbelief.

“Who brought them there?”

The girl looked down.

“A man from the hospital.”

The mother whispered, “No…”

The father remembered the doctor.

The closed caskets.

The rushed papers.

His own brother standing beside him, saying, “Don’t ask to see them. Remember them whole.”

The girl touched the mother’s sleeve.

“They said if I ever saw the crying lady at the grave, I should tell her…”

The mother grabbed her hand.

“What?”

The girl’s lips trembled for the first time.

“They’re still waiting for Mommy.”