The morning after the first frost, my sister, husband, and I were helping Grandma at her house when we walked in and found a baby sitting in her armchair—no open doors, no sound, just a perfectly still baby wrapped in an old quilt.
Grandma didn’t flinch. “I wondered when you’d come back,” she said.
She claimed it was Peter—the same baby who appeared in 1972, stayed for three years, then vanished without a trace. He had the same eyes, same birthmark, same blanket.
That night, she put him to sleep in the old crib she’d kept all these years. My husband wanted to call the police. I wasn’t sure. It felt… familiar.
One night, Grandma cried, saying Peter remembered. He’d looked at her and said, “missed you.” Then she showed us an old photo from 1974—same dimple, same look.
A few nights later, Peter woke screaming, pointing at the frost-covered window. Grandma said, “They’re trying to take him back.”
She brought him to an old chapel where he was baptized, hoping to protect him. But two days later, a strange woman appeared from the woods.
“I’ve come for him,” she said. “He belongs to the cycle. Some souls return until they find peace.”
Peter looked at Grandma, whispered “Thank you,” and went with her—no fear, just peace.
Three years later, we still have the quilt, the crib, and the photo. Last Christmas, Grandma got a picture of a boy by a stream. On the back, it said:
“Finished now. Thank you for the love.”
Maybe love really does bring someone back—just long enough to let go.
