I froze a few steps away. At the grave stood a middle-aged man, with gray streaks in his hair and trembling hands. He held a bouquet of white lilies and spoke in a soft, almost whispering voice:
— Forgive me… I realized too late how much I loved you.
He knelt down and ran his fingers over the stone as if it were a face. I gasped. Who was he?
Why did these words sound so sincere? I stepped closer, and the man turned around. His eyes glistened with tears, and I recognized him.
He was an old college friend of my wife — someone she had mentioned only a few times, almost in passing. He sighed heavily:
— We were young… and I let her go. I’ve regretted it my whole life.
When I learned of her death, I couldn’t help but come. Since then, I’ve come here every week. It’s my only way of being close to her.
I felt jealousy and anger battling inside me with a strange respect. He loved her in his own way, and even after her death, his feelings hadn’t faded. I looked at the flowers in his hands and understood: he was neither a rival nor an enemy.
He was another person who kept her in his heart. We stood in silence, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel loneliness — I felt warmth. Because love for her lived not only in me.
