I couldn’t tell if I was going crazy or if something sinister was lurking in the shadows. After I came back from the cemetery, I found the flowers I had put on my wife’s grave sitting in the kitchen vase, just as I left them. I had laid my wife and my guilt to rest five years ago, yet it seemed as though the past was trying to pull me back in.
The burden of grief never really goes away. Five years have passed since I lost my wife, Winter, yet the pain remains as vivid as ever. Eliza, our daughter, was only 13 when it all unfolded. At 18, she has transformed into a young woman, bearing her mother’s absence like a quiet shadow that follows her everywhere.
The calendar caught my eye, the circled date seemed to taunt me. Another year has passed, and yet another anniversary is on the horizon. I felt a growing unease in my stomach as I shouted for Eliza.
“I’m off to the cemetery, my dear.”
Eliza stood in the doorway, her eyes veiled with indifference. “Here we go again, Dad.”
I nodded, at a loss for words.What can I even say? I was sorry? That I also missed her mother?I picked up my keys and stepped outside, letting the silence linger in the air between us.
The florist’s shop was alive with vibrant colors and delightful scents. I walked up to the counter, feeling the weight of each step.
“The usual, Mr. Ben?” the florist inquired, her smile warm and understanding.
White roses. As usual.
While she was wrapping the bouquet, I found myself reminiscing about the first time I had purchased Winter flowers. It was our third date, and I was so nervous that I almost dropped them.
She laughed, her eyes shining, and said, “Ben, you’re so cute when you get all flustered.”
The memory slipped away as the florist passed me the roses. “Here you are, Mr. Ben.” I’m certain she’d really appreciate them.
Thank you. I really hope so.
The cemetery lay still, with only the gentle rustling of leaves breaking the silence in the breeze. As I walked towards Winter’s grave, each step seemed to weigh me down more than the one before.
The black marble headstone appeared, her name carved in gold letters that glimmered softly in the faint sunlight.
I knelt down and gently set the roses against the stone. A sharp wave of sorrow hit me as I ran my fingers over the letters of her name.
I really miss you, Winter. I really miss you a lot.
The wind started to blow harder, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. For a brief moment, I could nearly feel her touch, as if she was trying to let me know she was still present.
However, the harsh truth hit home fast. She was gone, and no amount of wishing could ever bring her back.
I got to my feet, wiping the dirt off my knees. “I’ll return next year, my dear.” I swear.”
As I walked away, I couldn’t help but feel that something was different this time. Yet, I brushed the thought away, attributing it to the constant grief that seemed to toy with my mind.
When I got back, the house was silent.I made my way to the kitchen, craving a robust cup of coffee.
That’s when I noticed them.
On the kitchen table, in a crystal vase I didn’t recognize, were the same roses I had just placed at Winter’s grave.
My heart started to race, pounding so intensely that I could hear it in my ears. I moved ahead, my hands trembling as I extended them to feel the petals. They were truly real, beyond all belief.
What on earth? “Eliza!” I shouted, my voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted house. “Eliza, are you around?”
I turned around, keeping my gaze fixed on the roses. They were just like the ones I had purchased, featuring the same subtle imperfections and the same dewdrops resting on the petals.
It just couldn’t be done.
“This can’t be happening,” I murmured, stepping back from the table. “This just can’t be happening.”
I lost track of time as I stood there, gazing at those extraordinary roses. The sound of footsteps jolted me back to reality.
“Dad?” What’s the matter?
I glanced over to find Eliza on the staircase, her eyes growing wide as she noticed my pale expression.
“Hey, Dad, what’s happening?” “You seem like you’ve just encountered a ghost.”
I pointed at the vase, my hand trembling slightly. “Eliza, where did these roses come from?” “Did you bring these back with you?”
She shook her head, a look of confusion evident on her face. No, I was hanging out with friends. I just returned. What’s the matter?
I inhaled deeply, attempting to calm my voice. These are the very roses I placed at your mother’s grave. Just the same, Eliza. How can that even be possible?
Eliza’s face went white, her gaze flickering back and forth between me and the flowers. “I don’t think that’s possible, Dad.” “Are you really sure?”
I’m certain. I have to return to the cemetery. Now.
The ride back to the cemetery felt like a haze. Thoughts swirled in my head, each one more improbable than the one before.
Did someone follow me? Did I picture myself leaving the flowers earlier? Am I losing my mind?
Eliza was determined to join me, yet the journey was overshadowed by an awkward silence.
As we got closer to Winter’s grave, I felt a heavy weight in my chest. The place where I had lovingly arranged the roses was bare. There were no flowers, and it felt like I had never been there at all.
They’ve left. “How could they just disappear?”
Eliza knelt, her fingers gliding over the exposed earth. “Dad, are you really sure you left them here?” Perhaps you overlooked—
I shook my head vigorously. “No, I’m sure.” “I set them down right here, just a couple of hours back.”
She got to her feet, locking her gaze with mine.
“Can we head home now, Dad?” We really need to sort this out.
The roses remained on the kitchen table back at the house. Eliza and I stood on either side, the flowers in between us acting as a sort of barrier.
“We need to talk about this, Dad.” Perhaps Mom is trying to communicate something to us.
I chuckled. “Eliza, your mother has passed away.” People who have passed away don’t send messages.
“So, how do you make sense of this?” She retorted, pointing at the roses. “I’m starting to run out of reasonable explanations.”
I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling a mix of frustration and fear rising within me. “I really have no idea, Eliza!” I’m really confused about what’s happening right now. It just doesn’t seem right… it can’t be like this…
My voice faded as I caught sight of something hidden beneath the vase. A tiny, creased piece of paper that I had never noticed before. My hands shook as I reached for it.
“What’s going on, Dad?”
I opened the note, my heart racing as I saw the familiar handwriting. Winter’s script.
I understand what really happened, and I choose to let it go. It’s time for you to confront what you’ve kept buried.
The room swirled around me, and I clutched the edge of the table to keep myself grounded. “No, this can’t be—” I murmured softly.
Eliza grabbed the note from my hand, her eyes growing wide as she took in the words. “Dad, what do you mean by truth?” “What are you keeping from me?”
After five long years, the burden of lies and guilt finally hit me all at once. I slumped into a chair, avoiding Eliza’s gaze.
“Your mother,” I started, my voice trembling. “The night she died… it felt like more than just an accident.”
Eliza gasped, breaking the stillness around her. “What are you trying to say?”
I made myself meet her gaze, confronting the hurt reflected in her eyes. That night, we got into a fight. A large one. She discovered that I had been seeing someone else.
Is there something going on? “You really cheated on Mom?”
I nodded, feeling a deep sense of shame welling up inside me. “That was an error, my dear.” A really bad mistake. I attempted to end it, but your mother discovered it before I had the chance. She felt a deep sense of anger and hurt. She burst out of the house and jumped into the car—
“And never came back,” Eliza concluded, her tone icy.
“I never shared this with anyone,” I went on, the words spilling out effortlessly now. I just couldn’t stand the thought of others discovering the truth. Knowing that her death was my fault.
Eliza remained quiet for a while, her gaze locked on the roses. When she finally spoke, her voice had an unsettling calmness to it.
“I knew it, Dad!”
I looked up in shock, completely overwhelmed by disbelief. “What do you mean, you were aware?”
When Eliza looked into my eyes, I could see a lifetime of hurt and fury reflected back at me.
“I’ve known for a long time, Dad.” Before she left that night, Mom shared everything with me. After she passed away, I came across her diary. I’ve always known.
“You’ve known?” All this time?
She nodded, her jaw tight with tension. I just wanted you to come clean about it. <text”I just needed to hear you say it.”
A chilling and terrifying realization washed over me. What about the roses and the note? Was it really you?
I went to the cemetery and picked the flowers from Mom’s grave that you left there. I wanted you to experience the same betrayal and pain she went through. <text”I imitated her handwriting and attached this note to the flowers because I wanted you to understand that the truth can’t be concealed indefinitely.”
Why is this the right time? Is it really after all these years?
Eliza glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall.
Five years, Dad. For five years, I’ve watched you portray the grieving widower while I bore the burden of your secret. I just couldn’t keep going.
“Eliza, I—”
Mom has forgiven you. She jotted that down in her diary. I’m just not certain I can do that. Eliza interrupted me, her words piercing right through my heart.
She turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the roses—once a symbol of love, now a haunting reminder of the betrayal that had shattered our family.
I reached out and brushed against a soft white petal, coming to the understanding that some wounds never really heal. They linger, concealed just below the surface until the truth compels them to emerge into the open.
This piece draws inspiration from actual events and individuals, though it has been creatively altered for storytelling. To safeguard privacy and enrich the story, names, characters, and details have been altered. Any similarity to real people, whether they are alive or deceased, or to real events is purely coincidental and not meant by the writer.
The author and publisher do not guarantee the accuracy of events or the representation of characters and are not responsible for any misunderstandings that may arise. This story comes to you “as is,” and any opinions shared are solely those of the characters, not necessarily representing the views of the author or publisher.
