Kerala, sunset on the Bharathapuzha River.

The river meanders slowly, its surface tinged with the orange-yellow hues of the sunset. The tall reeds cast long shadows on the stream, swaying gently in the wind. The space is quiet, only the sound of water lapping against the rocks and the birds chirping at the end of the day.

In a small cottage by the river, Shiv’s family is preparing the funeral for his wife, Anjali, who went missing a few days ago. The villagers brought back a body that had drifted more than a kilometer away, and everyone believes it is Anjali.

Aarav, the youngest son, 5 years old, sits quietly on the porch. His eyes are clear but his gaze is distant, as if observing something adults cannot see. When the body is embalmed, he grimaces, his mouth mumbling something that no one can hear clearly.

As the burial ceremony began, Aarav suddenly rushed forward, tears in his eyes:

“It’s not Mom! Mom said… it’s not Mom! Don’t leave Mom in there!”

The whole family was stunned. Shaking hands held the mourning cloth, the wind whistled through the cracks in the door. The villagers were stunned, no one dared to stop the boy.

Aarav pointed to the riverbank, where the sunset reflected on the water, making the reeds sway:

“Mom… Mom is in that crooked tree! I saw Mom!”

Shiv felt his heart sink. He remembered every detail of receiving the body: the disfigured face, recognizable only by the clothes. A lingering fear spread: if they buried the wrong person, there would never be a chance to make things right.

No one dared to argue, the family followed Aarav to the riverbank. Step by step through the reeds, Aarav led the way like a little spirit, his eyes shining in the sunset. With every rustling reed leaf, with every wet patch of mud, he recognized his mother’s traces.

A few hundred meters further, in the middle of the reed forest, they heard a faint moan. A woman, her back and arms covered in mud, stuck between the roots of a tree, gasped for breath. The sunset light reflected on her pale but familiar face.

“Anjali!!!”

The boy rushed forward, hugging his mother tightly, as if the whole world had returned to order. Tears mixed with the last light of the day, creating a scene both tragic and mysterious, like a scene from a Kerala legend.

Shiv knelt down beside her, holding both mother and son’s hands tightly, choking:

“I saved the whole family from a mistake… no one will forget it for the rest of their lives!”

Aarav was still smiling, his eyes sparkling: he seemed to understand the miracle that adults had overlooked. He cried and whispered,

“Mother… you are here… I know you are not going anywhere…”

When he got home, the twilight had given way to the twinkling stars in the Kerala sky. The whole village breathed a sigh of relief. The story of the boy sensitive to his mother and the miracle of the Bharathapuzha River spread, making people repeat it like a legend, about maternal love, childlike intuition and connection with nature.

In the following years, every time the sunset covered the river in gold, Aarav would run to the reed bank, stand still and listen to the murmuring water. People said he seemed to be conversing with something mystical, that only children and rivers could understand