My son died two years ago. Last night, at 3:07 a.m., he called me and whispered: “Mama… let me in. I’m cold.”

Her legs nearly gave out.

—“Chuka…?”

He lifted his head.

And the world stopped.

It was him.

Older. Thinner. A faint scar ran across his cheek. But the eyes—the same eyes that had once looked at her with warmth and laughter—now carried something else.

Something heavy.

Something hunted.

—“Mama,” he said softly.

Nneka staggered forward and collapsed into the chair across from him, her breath coming in sharp bursts.

—“You died,” she whispered. “They said you drowned. I buried you in my heart.”

—“I know,” he replied. “And I’m sorry.”

Tears blurred her vision.

—“Let me touch you,” she said.

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then he placed his hand on the table.

She grabbed it.

Warm.

Real.

Alive.

Nneka let out a broken sob.

—“We don’t have much time,” Chuka said, glancing toward the door.

—“Time? For what? To explain why my son became a ghost?” Nneka snapped, anger rising through her grief.

He leaned closer.

—“Because if anyone sees me… I’m dead for a reason.”

Her breath caught.

—“What are you talking about?”

He swallowed.

—“The night I ‘drowned’… I didn’t fall into the sea.”

Silence.

—“I was pushed.”

Nneka felt the world tilt.

—“By who?”

Chuka’s eyes darkened.

—“I didn’t see the face clearly. But I heard the voice.”

He paused.

—“It was someone from my own house.”

Nneka’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

—“Adanna?” she whispered.

Chuka didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.