Mark buried his son without a b0dy.

Three years ago, his seven-year-old son disappeared at sea during a storm. The boat capsized off the shore, and the waves covered everything in seconds.

Rescuers worked for weeks: divers combed the seabed, helicopters circled the water, police filed every possible report. Not a trace. Not a piece of clothing. Not a body. In the end, an official de:ath certificate. The judge signed it, and the world demanded Mark move on.

But how can you move on if you don’t know where your son is?

Mark couldn’t. He continued to breathe, work, sign contracts, grow his fortune, but inside, everything froze. Money lost its taste, houses lost their meaning, people lost their faces. There was a void in his chest that neither time nor luxury could fill. Until one ordinary Thursday.

Mark walked aimlessly past a makeshift market on the outskirts of town. The hum of voices, the smell of food, the dust under his feet—he couldn’t even remember why he was there. And suddenly, through the noise, he heard a sound. Thin, metallic, barely audible. A melody.

Mark’s heart skipped a beat.

He knew it. He knew it down to the last note. Because he himself had once sung it to a composer—a lullaby just for his son, Alex. The melody was recorded on a custom-made wristwatch. A one-of-a-kind piece. A birthday present for his son.

Mark turned abruptly and began walking toward the sound, pushing past people, oblivious to everyone around him. And he saw a boy of about nine. Thin, dirty, wearing a torn T-shirt. On his wrist was a child’s watch—scratched, faded… and playing that very melody.

Mark slowly sank to his knees and carefully took the boy’s hand, as if afraid he would disappear.

“Calm down… I won’t hurt you,” he said hoarsely. “This watch… where did you get it?”

The boy tensed and covered his wrist with his other hand, protecting the watch as if it were his most valuable possession.

And then he quietly said something that horrified the millionaire.

“It’s a gift from Dad.”

Mark froze.

“What… Dad?” he barely managed to say.

“The one who found the boy at sea,” the child continued. “He said… there was a storm. The boy was alive, but very weak. They pulled him ashore. Dad said he was holding on to this watch the whole time and wouldn’t let go of it.”

Mark stopped breathing.

“And then…” the boy lowered his eyes, “they had no money. None. They couldn’t keep the child. They gave him to an orphanage. But Dad kept the watch… and later gave it to me.”

Mark’s ears began to ring. He looked at the boy and no longer saw the market, the people, the sky.

He saw the storm. He saw his son. Alive.

For three years, he buried the child who hadn’t d:ied. He began to hope that he would find his son very soon. The main thing was that he was alive.