Cole's POV
The woman who approached me looked to be in her mid-forties, dressed plainly with tears glistening in her reddened eyes. Her hands nervously twisted a small handkerchief while a young man stood protectively at her side, his arm supporting her trembling frame.
"I apologize for my mother's state," the young man said softly. "She hasn't been herself since the police officer visited our home."
I stepped closer and gently took her hands in mine. The deep sorrow in her eyes was unmistakable - the kind that comes from years of weeping. The skin around her eyes bore witness to countless tears shed. My grandmother always said that nothing in this world could truly heal the heart of a mother who had lost her child.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered, feeling my own emotions rising to the surface. In that moment, I realized the baby we had buried could have been her daughter or my sister. Our pain connected us across the years. "Would you like to talk? Do you have time?"
