A year had passed since my wifes death, 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 someone you love leaves a hole in your soul that nothing can mend.
Since then, Id made a new ritual every Sunday. I woke 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 shortbreadas if she were there, listening.
Sometimes I didnt speak at all, just sat beside the headstone, remembering her laughter, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, how shed scold me for leaving socks all over the house. The pain never faded, but I lived for the memories of her.
Then, one Sunday morning, something strange happened. When I arrived, a fresh bouquet already lay at her grave. Beautiful, neatly arrangedthe same flowers I always brought.
At first, I thought it must be family. Later, I quietly asked her sister, then her motherneither had been there. No one knew anything. Yet the bouquets kept appearing. Every week.
I began to feel uneasy. A bitter jealousy twisted inside me. Jealousy, of all things, toward my own dead wife. Who else came to see her? Who loved her enough to bring flowers every week?
I couldnt bear not knowing. I decided to arrive earlier than usual. At dawn, I hid behind an old oak tree and waited.
And then I saw something that shattered me. I wish it had just been a lover. But what I saw broke my heart.
There he wasstanding at my wifes grave.
A young man, maybe twenty, tall, wearing a dark coat. He stepped forward, placed the bouquet gently, rested his hand on the headstone and wept. Silent, restrained, raw. He stayed like that for a long time before crouching down and whispering something I couldnt hear.
