I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, like a dark presence lurking nearby. When I returned home from the cemetery, I was stunned to find the flowers I had just placed on my wife Winter’s grave sitting perfectly in a vase in my kitchen. Winter had been gone for five long years, but it felt as if the past was clawing its way back, refusing to let me move on.
Grief is a heavy burden. It had been five years since I lost Winter, yet the ache in my heart was just as intense. Our daughter, Eliza, was only 13 when we lost her mother. Now at 18, she wore her mother’s absence like a shadow that wouldn’t lift.
Each day was a reminder, and as the anniversary of Winter’s death approached, the calendar felt like a taunt. My stomach knotted as I called out to Eliza.
“I’m going to the cemetery, honey,” I said, my voice shaky.
Eliza appeared, her gaze indifferent. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”
I nodded, but I struggled to find the right words. What could I say? That I missed her mother? That I was filled with regret? Instead, I let the silence stretch between us as I stepped outside.
At the florist, the scent of fresh flowers hit me like a wave. “White roses. Just like always,” I whispered, almost to myself.
As the florist wrapped the bouquet, a memory washed over me—my first gift to Winter. I could hear her laughter as she caught me fidgeting nervously with the flowers.
“She’d love them, Mr. Ben,” the florist said gently, and for a moment, it felt like Winter was right there with me.
With every step I took toward Winter’s grave, the weight of my loss pressed heavily on my heart. The black marble headstone glimmered in the sunlight, her name etched in gold. I knelt and placed the roses gently beside her.
“I miss you, Winter. God, I miss you,” I whispered, feeling tears spill down my cheeks.
A chill rushed through me, and I thought I felt her hand on my shoulder, a small sign that she was still with me. But deep down, I knew she was gone forever, and nothing could bring her back.
At home, seeking comfort in coffee, I stepped into the kitchen. And there, impossibly, was the bouquet of roses I had just left at Winter’s grave, standing proudly in a crystal vase that felt strangely unfamiliar.
My heart raced, and I reached out to touch the petals—they were fresh and real. “Eliza!” I called out, my voice trembling. “Eliza, are you here?”
Moments later, she appeared, her eyes wide with surprise. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Where did these roses come from? Did you put them here?” I demanded, panic rising in my chest.
She shook her head, confusion written all over her face. “No. I’ve been out with friends. What’s going on?”
I struggled to catch my breath. “These roses… I left them at your mother’s grave.”
Eliza’s expression turned serious, her face paling. “That’s impossible, Dad.”
Together, we rushed back to the cemetery. When we arrived, I knelt down, staring at the spot where I had just placed the roses. To my horror, they were gone.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, my heart aching. “I left them right here.”
“Let’s go home, Dad,” Eliza urged gently, her hand resting on my back as she guided me away.
Back in the kitchen, the roses stood firm, as if they had never left. We faced each other, the flowers standing between us like a wall.
“Dad,” Eliza said quietly, “maybe Mom is trying to tell us something.”
I scoffed, bitter laughter escaping my lips. “Your mother is gone, Eliza. Dead people don’t send messages.”
“Then what is this?” she countered, her voice steady as she gestured to the vase. “Because I can’t explain it any other way.”
Underneath the vase, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before—a small, folded piece of paper. My hands shook as I reached for it.
Unfolding the note, my heart dropped. The handwriting was unmistakably Winter’s. “I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time you face what you’ve hidden.”
The room spun, and I clutched the edge of the table, my mind racing. Eliza’s face twisted with anger and hurt.
“What truth, Dad?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “What have you hidden?”
I sank into a chair, the weight of my secret crashing down around me. “Your mother… that night she died… it wasn’t just an accident.”
Eliza’s sharp intake of breath cut through the air. “What do you mean?”
“We argued that night,” I confessed, my voice breaking. “She discovered I had been unfaithful. She was furious and heartbroken. She stormed out… and she never came back.”
Eliza was silent, her eyes fixed on the roses. “I knew, Dad. I’ve known for years.”
Shock rooted me to the spot. “You… knew?”
She nodded, her gaze hardening. “Mom told me everything before she left. I found her diary. I wanted you to admit it. I needed to hear you say it.”
Understanding dawned, chilling me to the bone. “The roses? The note? Was it you?”
She didn’t flinch, her expression unwavering. “I took the roses from her grave and left the note in her handwriting. I wanted you to feel what she felt that night.”
“Why now, after all this time?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, tears streaming down my face.
“Because I couldn’t stand watching you pretend anymore,” she said, her tone icy. “Mom might have forgiven you, but I don’t know if I can.”
With that, she turned and walked out, leaving me alone with the roses—the flowers that once represented our love, now a haunting reminder of the betrayal that shattered our family. As I traced the soft white petals, I realized that some wounds never heal; they simply wait for the truth to bring them into the light.
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