It had been a year since my wife passed away, yet someone left flowers at her grave every week. One day, I decided to find out who it was.
I buried my wife nearly a year ago. It was the hardest time of my life. We had been together for almost a decade. Losing a loved one leaves a hole in the soul that nothing can fill.
Since then, I had started a new ritual every Sunday. I rose early, bought her favourite flowerswhite chrysanthemums and pink carnationsand drove to the cemetery. I sat by her grave for hours, telling her about my week, how work was slowly improving, how Id learned to bake her favourite sconesas if she were there, listening.
Sometimes, I said nothing at all, just sat staring at the headstone, remembering her laugh, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, how she scolded me for leaving socks everywhere. The pain never left, but I lived for the memory of her.
Then, one strange morning, something odd happened. When I arrived at dawn, a fresh bouquet already lay at her graveneat, beautiful, with the very flowers I always brought.
At first, I thought it must be a relative. Later, I hesitantly asked her sister, then her motherneither had been there. No one knew a thing. But the bouquets kept appearing. Every week.
I began to feel peculiar. A strange jealousy twisted inside mejealousy toward my own dead wife. Who was this person who also visited her? Who loved her enough to bring flowers every Sunday?
I couldnt bear the mystery. I resolved to arrive earlier than usual. I came before sunrise, hiding behind the yew trees, waiting.
And soon, I saw something so terrible it shattered my life. I wish it had only been a lover. My heart is broken.
There he wasby my wifes grave.
A young man, perhaps twenty, tall, wearing a dark coat. He stepped forward, placed the bouquet gently, rested his hand on the headstone and wept. Real, quiet, heartbreaking sobs. He stood there a long while, then crouched down and whispered something.
