For a second, neither parent moved.

The mother just stared at the little girl, her mouth open, tears still running down her face.

The father rose halfway from his knees.

“No,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Those boys are dead.”

The little girl frowned, confused.

“No, they’re not.”

The graveyard went completely still.

Even the wind seemed to stop.

The girl looked back at the photo and pointed to the boy on the left.

“This one shares his bread with me.”

Then to the other.

“And this one cries in his sleep.”

The mother made a broken sound in her throat.

The father stepped closer.

“What are their names?”

The girl shook her head.

“The lady there says we’re not supposed to use their real names.”

The father’s face changed.

Fear.

Real fear.

The mother grabbed the edge of the headstone to stay upright.

The little girl reached into the pocket of her dirty smock and pulled out something small.

A worn blue toy car.

Her mother let out a scream the moment she saw it.

It slipped from her lips before she could stop it.

“That was Noah’s.”

The father froze.

Because it was.

He had buried the matching one with the coffin they were told held his son.

The little girl held the toy out with both hands.

“The nice boy gave it to me,” she said. “He said if I ever saw the lady who cries here, I should give it back.”

The mother took the car and nearly collapsed.

The girl’s voice softened.

“He said to tell you he didn’t forget your song.”

The mother pressed the toy to her chest and sobbed so hard she couldn’t stand.

Every night she used to sing the same lullaby to her twins.

No one else knew that.

No one.

The father knelt in front of the little girl, shaking now.

“Who brought them there?”

The girl’s face fell.

“A man from the hospital.”

Her voice got smaller.

“He told the orphanage they had no family.”

The father went pale.

Because only one person had handled everything after the fire.

His own brother.

The one who signed the death papers.

The one who told them the boys were gone.

The mother looked up through tears, horror spreading across her face.

“No…”

The little girl nodded slowly.

“They’ve been waiting for you.”

The father stood so fast the wet leaves scattered around his shoes.

His wife clutched the toy car like it was her children’s heartbeat.

Then the little girl whispered the words that broke them both completely.

“They still call for Mommy when it rains.”