When Ellen visits Paul’s grave for solace, she’s taken aback by the sight of children’s shoes resting on his headstone. Initially, she brushes it off, thinking it must be a mistake by another grieving family. However, as more shoes appear over time, her curiosity deepens. Determined to uncover the truth, Ellen eventually encounters the person responsible—and her life changes in an instant.
The first time I noticed the shoes, I assumed someone had simply made a mistake. A small pair of blue sneakers rested beside Paul’s headstone, placed there with care. I thought a grieving parent had misplaced them. People react strangely when they mourn—I know I did. After Paul’s sudden accident, I spent a week making jam that I never intended to eat; it was the only thing that made me feel productive.
But those shoes felt different. They didn’t belong, so I moved them aside before placing my flowers at Paul’s grave. It wasn’t until my next visit that I noticed more shoes—this time, tiny red rain boots. On another occasion, I found dark green sneakers. It all felt too deliberate to be random. And it didn’t make sense; Paul and I never had children. I tried to convince myself it was a simple mistake, but deep down, I sensed something was off.
As the shoes multiplied with each visit, it felt as though an invisible force was unraveling the fragile peace I had managed to create. Frustrated, I stopped visiting for a while, hoping the shoes would disappear. But they didn’t. When I finally returned, six pairs of children’s shoes stood neatly arranged beside Paul’s headstone, like a haunting tribute I couldn’t comprehend.
My sadness turned into anger. Who was doing this? Was it some cruel joke?
Then, one cold morning, I finally saw her. She was crouched beside the grave, gently placing a pair of small brown sandals next to the growing collection. Her long, dark hair swayed in the breeze as she carefully arranged them, her movements slow and purposeful.
“Hey! You!” I shouted, rushing toward her, the flowers I had brought slipping from my hands, forgotten.
She flinched but didn’t flee. Instead, she stood slowly, dusting off her coat before turning to face me. That’s when my breath caught in my throat.
It was Maya—Paul’s former secretary. I hadn’t seen her in years, not since she abruptly left her job. Once warm and cheerful, the woman before me now carried a burden of sorrow I recognized all too well.
“Maya?” I whispered, disbelief heavy in my voice.
She nodded, her eyes red with unshed tears. Without a word, she reached into her coat pocket and handed me a worn photograph. My hands trembled as I accepted it, my heart pounding.
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