One evening, we asked our 2.5-year-old daughter a simple question: “How many people live in our house?” Expecting her to say four—my husband,

me, her, and her baby brother—we were surprised when she answered, “Five.” At first, we laughed, assuming she meant the cat.

But she shook her head. “No, Mommy. Daddy. Me. Little brother. And…” She pointed toward the hallway, empty in our eyes.

“Who, sweetheart?” I asked softly. Her reply chilled us: “The nice lady. She sings to me when I can’t sleep.” The room fell silent.

My husband and I exchanged uneasy glances, unsure whether it was imagination or something else.

For days, her words echoed in my mind. Children often invent friends, but then I remembered my grandmother,

who passed away long before my daughter was born. She used to sing a lullaby—the very same tune I once overheard my daughter humming in her sleep.

Coincidence? Memory? Or something beyond us? I don’t know. But as I tucked her in that night, I understood: family isn’t always

counted in numbers we can see. Sometimes love lingers, and those who’ve left still remain. Maybe she was right. There are five of us here.