It started as any other morning—a quiet visit to my father’s grave. By the next day, I found myself in a police station, falsely accused of theft. All because of a single act of kindness toward a grieving blind woman.
Grief has a way of stretching time, making every memory sharper. Six months had passed since my father’s death, but the ache remained. Weekly visits to his grave became my solace, a time to say what I couldn’t in life.
That morning, the air was crisp, rustling the leaves of towering oaks. I stood by his grave, clutching white lilies, his favorite flower. “Goodbye, Dad,” I whispered, brushing away a tear.
As I turned to leave, I noticed an elderly woman a few rows away, leaning on a white cane by a freshly turned grave. Her frail figure and slumped shoulders spoke of profound grief.
“Excuse me,” I said gently, approaching her. “Do you need help?”
She smiled faintly. “Oh, thank you. My sons were supposed to pick me up, but it seems they forgot. Could you walk me home?”
Forgotten? I felt a pang of anger but nodded. “Of course.”
Her name was Kira. As we walked, she shared her sorrow—her husband Samuel had passed away just days before. “Forty-two years of marriage,” she said, voice breaking. “And now, I’m alone.”
I squeezed her arm. “I’m so sorry.”
Her pain ran deep, tinged with bitterness. “My sons—Ethan and Mark—they didn’t even wait for me. Samuel always said they cared more about our money than us.”
When we reached her modest brick home, she invited me in for tea. Her house, warm and filled with faded photos, contrasted with her somber mood. One picture showed a younger Kira and Samuel in front of the Eiffel Tower.
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