My son was sitting upright on his bed, whispering into the darkness as though someone were listening.

My heart skipped at first, but as I walked closer, I realized he wasn’t frightened—just intent.

He looked over at me with drowsy eyes and pointed toward the rocking chair in the corner. “Mommy, the big man sits there. He sings.”

The room was empty, yet the chair swayed lightly, as if someone had only just risen from it.

The next morning, I gently asked him more about this “big man.”

My son said he was kind, older, and wore “a hat like the ones in Grandpa’s pictures.”

His words made me pause.

My father had passed away before my son was born, yet he had always dreamed of meeting his future grandchildren.

My son had never seen the old photo of him wearing that particular hat—it was from long before he was born.

Feeling curious and a little emotional, I set an old family album in front of my son without offering any explanation.

He flipped through a few pages, then stopped and tapped a picture with absolute certainty. “That’s him, Mommy. That’s the man who sings.”

It was my father, smiling beneath his familiar wide-brimmed hat. My son wasn’t scared at all—he looked comforted, as if someone gentle were looking out for him.

That night, when I tucked him into bed, I felt calm rather than uneasy.

Whatever my son had experienced—imagination, a memory he couldn’t explain, or something beyond our understanding—it brought him warmth instead of fear.

I kissed his forehead and whispered, “If someone’s watching over you, then we’re lucky.”

For the first time in weeks, he slept peacefully through the night—and the rocking chair stayed completely still.