I wasn’t sure if bringing him was the right choice.
Zeke, my son’s closest friend, had been in the hospital for three days after a terrible accident. A sudden fall during recess—no one saw it coming. He’d suffered a skull fracture and internal bleeding. Now he lay still, surrounded by machines that were doing what his small body couldn’t manage on its own.
Since the moment it happened, my son Eli had barely spoken. All he kept asking, again and again, was, “Is Zeke better yet?”
So when the hospital finally allowed a short visit, I decided to take him.
Eli was silent as we walked through the sterile corridors. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t even flinch. He simply clutched a small toy in his hand—an old action figure Zeke had once given him, its arm long gone. He walked up to the hospital bed, placed the toy gently beside Zeke, and whispered, “You can have him back now.”
Then he turned around and walked straight out without a word, never looking back.
I stood there for a moment, unsure of what had just happened. Zeke didn’t stir—his body unmoving, still held in that delicate balance between life and death. And Eli… did he even realize what he’d said? There was something about the way he’d spoken. Something too calm. Too knowing. He was only eight years old, but in that moment, he seemed so much older.
I caught up with him in the hallway. “Eli,” I asked gently, “what did you mean by that?”
He glanced up at me, his face unreadable. “Zeke’s not coming back, Mom,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t have to. He already left.”
A chill ran down my spine. How could he say that with such certainty? How could he know? I tried to push the thought aside. He was just a child. Maybe it was his way of coping. Still, something in his voice haunted me.
That night, after we returned home, Eli went straight to his room and closed the door behind him without another word. I sat alone in the living room, staring blankly at the darkened screen of the TV, replaying the day in my mind. Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe it was just the stress.
But later, when the house had gone quiet and Eli was supposed to be asleep, I heard him talking. His voice was low, and I couldn’t quite catch the words. Curious—and a little unsettled—I tiptoed down the hall and slowly opened his bedroom door.
What I saw stopped me cold.
Zeke was sitting on the edge of Eli’s bed, smiling gently, like nothing had ever happened.
I froze, my heart thudding in my chest. Zeke was supposed to be in a hospital bed. Yet here he was, looking peaceful and whole, watching my son.
“Mom?” Eli said softly, breaking the silence. “It’s okay. Zeke just came to say goodbye.”
I stepped into the room, hardly breathing. Zeke turned his gaze to me. His eyes were kind but far away. Not quite present. Not entirely… here.