Nobody touched the coffin.

The latch rose another fraction.

The father backed away, his breathing uneven.

“What do you mean, not her knock?”

The teenager couldn’t take his eyes off the lid.

His lips trembled.

“She always knocked twice.”

The father stared at him.

“How would you know that?”

The boy finally looked up.

Tears filled his eyes.

“Because she was my mother too.”

The cemetery went still.

The father’s face changed.

“No.”

The teenager nodded once.

“She had me before she met you.”

A mourner whispered something behind them, but neither heard it.

The father looked at the coffin.

Then back at the boy.

“You’re lying.”

The teenager reached into his soaked jacket and pulled out an old photograph.

The woman in the coffin was younger.

Holding a baby.

On the back, one sentence had been written in fading ink.

The father read it.

His hand began to shake.

Then the coffin knocked again.

Three times.

Fast.

The teenager stepped backward.

“My mother knew I was coming today.”

The father’s eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“She called me last night.”

The father stopped breathing.

The boy stared at the rising latch.

“And she said if I heard three knocks…”

His voice broke.

“…I must not open it.”