When the military officials told her that her son had died from heart failure, she couldn’t believe it. He was young, strong, and had never shown any signs of illness. Then the story changed—pneumonia, they said. But nothing added up.
A friend who visited the grave noticed a strange detail—the wrong birth year was engraved on the plaque. The mother’s unease turned to determination. Why had she been kept from seeing his body? Why was the burial so rushed?
One night, she made a decision. With the help of two men, she returned to the cemetery. Under the cover of darkness, they dug until the coffin was uncovered. But when they lifted it, her heart sank—it was too light. Inside, there was nothing. No body, no answers.
Officials scrambled to explain—blaming errors, technical issues, anything but the truth. But she knew better. Her instincts told her he was still alive.
Months later, a phone call proved her right. Her son’s voice, weak but unmistakable, came through the line. He had been captured, not killed. As she wept with joy, one thought echoed in her mind—she had never stopped believing.
