I want to be careful about what came next, because it was not a miracle and I will not pretend it was. Lena was still gone. The correct body had been released to another family two towns over, and they had already held a service too, for a woman they had never met. Two households had grieved the wrong person. The detective spent a week untangling it and it was, in the end, an error, terrible and human, not a crime, though the facility was cited and the night technician did not keep the job.

We exhumed and corrected both burials in the spring, quietly, with a court order and a great deal of paperwork I do not remember signing. The other family and I met once. We did not have words for it. We just sat in a room together, two men who had buried each other’s wives by mistake, and that was its own kind of thing that does not have a name.

Lena rests where she should now. So does the other woman, Priya, whose husband I still send a card to every year on a date we agreed on.

Rowan is fourteen. He does not talk about it much. He kept the backpack long after he outgrew it, for the blue tag, which he cut out and keeps in a drawer.

He noticed an ear. A single earlobe, at a viewing, at eight years old, while every adult in the room stared at a face and saw what we needed to see. I was so consumed by trying to say goodbye that I nearly let my wife lie in a stranger’s grave. Grief makes us look without seeing. My son looked. He always looks, at the small permanent things the rest of us miss, and because he did, his mother is where she belongs, and I have never once since dismissed a quiet child who says he noticed something.