Every year, in February, at dawn, I visit my son’s grave. In the pocket of my coat, I always carry a small metal spoon. I never leave home without it. Over time, it has become an invisible thread that connects me to him.

Its touch brings back powerful memories — the clinking against the plate, the smell of his favorite dessert, and above all, the absence. That quiet, constant absence that whispers in a corner of my being every single day.

Arthur was seventeen when everything changed. A brutal, unexpected car accident. One second, one mistake, and he was gone. Since that day, I’ve kept a simple but essential ritual: I bake his favorite apple-cinnamon pie — the one we used to make together. He called it “Grandma’s magic pie.” He loved it.

I only bring one slice. Just one. It’s entirely for him. I place it gently on the stone, no flowers, no candles. It’s my way of staying close to him.

This year, I followed the same ritual. The pie was still warm when I arrived. I placed the slice on a clean napkin, then set it gently on the grave, whispering:

“Here you go, my little Arthu… I know you would’ve devoured it in one bite.”

I stayed for a while, adjusting the small stones around the headstone, then left. But this time, a strange feeling followed me all the way home — as if something had changed.

The next morning, I went back. I brushed away some leaves and replaced the extinguished candle. But from afar, I could already tell something had happened. The plate was empty. Not knocked over, not blown away — no, it was exactly where I had left it. Clean. And on it, a small, neatly folded piece of paper.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up. My heart was pounding. On that piece of paper, clumsily scribbled in a childlike hand, were these words:

“Thank you for the pie you bring me every year. I haven’t forgotten you either.”

Time stood still. I froze, unable to process what I was seeing. It wasn’t a hastily written note. The paper was dry, the plate placed back with care. Someone had taken their time — with respect.

My first thought was that it was a cruel joke. But the words… so simple, so true, they echoed in a familiar way.

I went to Arthur’s old school, the one where he had spent his happiest years. While flipping through yearbooks and memories, an old teacher spoke to me:

— He had a very close friend… Lucas. They were inseparable. But after the accident, he vanished. He didn’t even come to the funeral. I think he never managed to cope.

I kept searching. In an old notebook, I found a postcard. On it, scribbled words:

“You were my best friend. I miss you.”
Signed with a simple L.

Time passed. For a long while, I heard nothing. Then, on October 1st — Arthur’s birthday — I went back to the cemetery. And there, I found a new slice of pie… and this time, two plates.

I didn’t leave. I sat on the bench nearby, my back to the grave. And I waited.

An hour later, a young man arrived. Thin, shoulders slumped, holding a bouquet of flowers. He stopped in front of the grave and bowed his head. He didn’t say a word.

I stood up. I walked toward him.

— Are you his mother? he asked softly.

— Yes… And you’re Lucas?

He nodded.

— For years, I couldn’t bring myself to come. I was scared… and ashamed that I hadn’t said goodbye.

— But today, you’re here, I replied, my voice filled with the gentleness of wounds beginning to heal.

— I come every year, from far away. And one day, I saw the pie… and something broke inside me.

We stayed in silence for a long while. Then he pointed to one of the plates.

— Come, Lucas. From today on, this memory doesn’t belong to me alone.

He sat beside me. We ate. A simple act. A memory shared. Together.
That moment marked a turning point in my life.
A moment I will never forget.