You enter the Master bedroom, and sit in the corner. There he is.
On the bed.
His spank-me eyes beckon you over. You approach him, sit next to him. As you raise your arm to strike him, he grabs it. Your eyes meet his.
He effortlessly escapes your gaze, picks up the biro beside your bed and roughly - almost inhumanly roughly for a boy of no more than seven years - he turns your palm over and begins to write on your hand.
He writes the date you were born and he writes your favourite colour. He writes the name of your first girlfriend and he writes the name of your son and the age he was when he died.
He gets up and strides out of the room without looking back. You hold your head in your hands and begin to weep.