People began noticing the boy at the cemetery at the very beginning of May. He was around ten years old, no older. Every day, he came to the same grave. He would sit on the ground, pressed against the cold stone, and cry out to the sky:
— She’s alive! She’s not here!
Visitors looked at him with sympathy. Everyone thought the same thing: grief. He simply couldn’t accept the loss. Sooner or later, he’d come to terms with the fact that his mother was gone.
