That day, as every year, I went to my wife’s grave and saw a barefoot child sleeping right on the headstone. I carefully woke him, afraid of frightening him, and when I learned who he was and why he was there, I was completely shocked 

That day, as every Sunday, I was walking to the cemetery, to my wife’s grave. I had been doing this for many years, without missing a single time. It was the only moment when I could be alone with my memories.

Again and again, my mind returned to that terrible day when the hospital called and, in a dry voice, told me that she was gone. Since then, I have been alone.

I walked along the familiar path between the graves, hardly looking around. I knew this place by heart. That’s why, when I saw a figure on my wife’s headstone from a distance, I first thought I was imagining things.

I even stopped. I thought maybe I had mixed up the grave. But no. I came here every week—there couldn’t be a mistake.

On my wife’s headstone was sleeping a small boy, about six or seven years old. He was curled up, as if he were cold. He was barefoot, his feet dirty, his clothes old and wet. It was clear the child hadn’t come here by chance.

I stepped closer, trying not to scare him. A thought crossed my mind that he was probably a homeless child who had simply found a place to sleep. I gently touched his shoulder.

The boy opened his eyes and looked at me in fear. Then, unexpectedly, he said:

— Is it you? I’ve been waiting for you for several days.

I was stunned.

— What do you mean? Who are you? And what are you doing on my wife’s grave?

And then the homeless boy told me something that filled me with complete horror.  Continued in the first comment 

It turned out that during my previous visit, when I bent down to place flowers on the grave, my wallet had fallen out of my pocket. I hadn’t noticed. But the boy had. He ran after me, calling out and waving his arms, but I got into my car and drove away.

So he decided to wait.

He came here every day. Sat beside the grave. Slept right on the headstone. Waited for me to return so he could give back what belonged to me.

— But there was money in it… — I said quietly. — You could have bought yourself some food.

The boy shrugged.

— Why? It wasn’t my money. And you’re not allowed to take what belongs to someone else.

At that moment, I understood that I couldn’t just walk past.

I helped him. I paid for his education. Later, I will give him a job when he grows up. Because people like that are rare. Honest. Real.