Inside was a small wooden box. But it wasn’t the box itself that scared him — it was the child’s handwriting scratched onto it with something sharp: “Mom’s heart.”
For a few seconds he couldn’t move. Not from fear, but from a feeling much deeper than any fear. He carefully opened the box. Instead of the expected childish treasures, it contained… a handful of soil, a piece of fabric, and a faded photograph. It was a family photo. Noah was there too. The handwriting on the back read: “Mom, this is for you.”
Matt ran to the school archive and searched the student records. He found out that Noah lived in a foster home. His mother had di.ed, and his father — a soldier — had been ki.lled two years earlier in a military conflict. He was their only child.
A few days before the discovery, teachers had noticed something strange: Noah often stood alone near the windows, looking into the distance. Sometimes, he would talk quietly, as if someone invisible was next to him.
— “He’s just imagining things,” — said the psychologists. — “He needs time to adapt.”
But that evening, Noah didn’t come to school. His foster parents called the police. Matt thought about what he’d found — the buried box — and understood what it meant.
A few hours later, a massive search began involving police and volunteers. By midnight, they found Noah asleep under a tree in the old park, clutching a small teddy bear.
— “Don’t punish me,” he whispered.
— “Why would we?”
— “The ground is cold. Mom will be cold.”
— “Where are you?”
— “Give me time. I’m waiting. It will get warmer. Something still has to bloom.”
He didn’t resist. He was exhausted, his small hands still covered in soil from digging under the same tree where his mother’s ashes had been scattered.
After that, Noah started regular therapy sessions with Sarah and John Bailey, the couple fostering him. They found the boy sitting in silence for hours, his toys lined up neatly and perfectly by size — while outside, the wind scattered the autumn leaves.
Spring came early that year. Noah was planting flowers in pots, talking quietly to himself. His foster parents saw him smile for the first time, even laugh. He was telling his mother how much he missed her but that now everything was okay.
Matt often came to visit Noah. Together they walked in the park. One day Noah asked quietly:
— “Do you believe I was digging?”
— “I do.”
— “And why?”
— “Because you didn’t want to forget what love felt like. The deepest pain was the only way to remember it.”
Noah smiled faintly. His eyes shone — that same childlike sincerity Matt had never forgotten.
The next morning, the school principal called Matt. The boy had disappeared again. Behind the gym, where Noah used to dig, there was a small wooden cross. On it was carved:
“That’s where the flowers will bloom first. Don’t worry. I’m not gone.”
Matt silently placed his hand over the cross:
— “I’ll take care of them for you.”
— “I promise.”
He planted ten tulips there. They bloomed together that spring — red, like the heart the boy had once buried.
