Haunted by doubts and what felt like a darker presence, I began questioning my own mind. Returning from the cemetery, I was stunned to find the flowers I had placed on my wife’s grave waiting for me in a vase in our kitchen. Winter had been gone for five years, but somehow, the past refused to rest, clawing its way back into the present.
Grief never truly fades. It’s been half a decade since I lost her, yet the pain lingers. Our daughter, Eliza, was just 13 then. Now, at 18, she carries her mother’s absence as a quiet shadow.
With another anniversary approaching, the calendar taunted me. I felt a twist of dread as I called to Eliza, “I’m heading to the cemetery.”
Eliza’s response was indifferent. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”
Unable to say more, I left in silence.
At the florist, I requested the usual—white roses. Memories of Winter’s laughter as she teased me over my nervous, clumsy gestures surfaced. The florist handed me the bouquet with a kind smile, saying, “She’d love these, Mr. Ben.”
At Winter’s grave, I carefully placed the roses, speaking softly, “I miss you, Winter.”
Back home, hoping coffee would soothe my nerves, I walked into the kitchen—and froze. There, in a crystal vase I didn’t recognize, were the roses I’d left at her grave.
Heart pounding, I called out, “Eliza!”
Eliza appeared, concern in her eyes. “What’s wrong, Dad?”
I pointed to the roses, my voice shaking. “Did you put these here?”
“No, I’ve been out with friends,” she said, just as startled as I was.
I explained, and together we returned to the cemetery. Winter’s grave was bare, the roses gone. Bewildered, I whispered, “I left them here…”
Back home, the roses remained, as if nothing had changed. Eliza looked at me, her expression somber. “Dad, maybe Mom’s trying to tell us something.”
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