Chapter Four Hundred And Ninety-five: A Lovetrip To Lincolnshire

The third point of view:

"Son?" George was shocked out of his mind when he woke up to his son on his bed. How was that possible? He died. He buried him.

"Father," his son said. 

"No, no, no," He shook his head stubbornly as if he wanted to jerk the image of him away, "This is just a dream," 

"Father, it's me," His son reached out and touched him. 

George felt him. He was real. 

"Oh my God," He gasped and cupped his son's face with his palm, tears streaming down his face. 

"I'm so sorry," He cried, "It's all my fault. I should have been more careful. It was as a result of my carelessness," George cried, holding onto him tightly as if he would vanish if he dared let go. 

"Where's Julie?"

The tears came to a sudden stop, George stiffened and he slowly let go of his son. However, when he glanced up at him, his son's expression was frozen.