It had been a year since my wife passed, 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. Wed been together almost ten years. Losing someone you love leaves a hole in your soul that nothing can fill.
Since then, Id made a new ritual every Sunday. Id wake 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 learned to recreate her favourite biscuitsas if she were there, listening.
Sometimes I said nothing at all, just sat there staring at the headstone, remembering her laugh, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, how shed moan when I left socks strewn about the house. The pain never faded, but I lived for the memory of her.
Then, one strange morning, something odd happened. When I arrived, a fresh bouquet already lay by her grave. Neat, elegantthe exact flowers I always brought.
At first, I thought it mustve been a relative. Later, I asked her sister, then her motherneither had been there. No one knew a thing. Yet the bouquets kept appearing. Every week.
I began to feel strange. A gnawing jealousy. Jealousy toward my dead wife. Who was this person visiting her? Who loved her enough to bring flowers every Sunday?
I couldnt stand not knowing. I decided to arrive before dawn, hiding behind the yew trees, waiting.
And soon, I saw something that shattered my world. I wish it had just been a lover. My heart is broken.
I saw him standing at my wifes grave.
A lad, maybe twenty. Tall, in a dark coat. He stepped forward, placed the bouquet gently, rested his hand on the headstone and wept. Quiet, choked, manly tears. He stood there a long while, then crouched down and whispered something.
