It had been a year since my wife passed away, but someone kept leaving flowers at her grave every week. One day, I decided to find out who it was.
I buried my wife almost a year ago. It was the hardest time of my life. Wed been together nearly a decade. Losing someone you love leaves a hole in your soul that nothing else can fill.
Since then, Id started a new Sunday ritual. Id wake up early, buy her favourite flowerswhite chrysanthemums and pink carnationsand drive to the cemetery. Id sit by her grave for hours, telling her about my week, how work was slowly improving, how Id finally mastered her gingerbread recipeas if she were right there, listening.
Sometimes, I wouldnt say anything at all. Id just sit there, staring at the headstone, remembering her laugh, the way shed fuss with her hair, how shed groan whenever I left socks lying about. The pain never really went away, but I carried on for her memory.
Then one Sunday, something odd happened. When I arrived, there was already a fresh bouquet at her graveneat, lovely, made up of the very same flowers I always brought.
At first, I thought it mustve been a relative. Later, I cautiously asked her sister, then her motherneither had been there. No one knew a thing. But the bouquets kept appearing. Every single week.
I started feeling strange. Jealous, even. Jealous of my own late wife. Who was this mystery visitor? Who loved her enough to bring flowers every week?
The not-knowing ate at me. So, one morning, I decided to get there before they did. I arrived at dawn, tucked myself behind an oak tree, and waited.
And then I saw something that shattered my heart into pieces. I wish it had just been a secret lover. That wouldve been easier.
There he wasstanding at my wifes grave.
A young man, maybe twenty, tall, wearing a dark coat. He walked up, placed the bouquet carefully, rested his hand on the headstone and then he wept. Real, quiet, manly tears. He stood there a long while, then crouched down and whispered something.
