I went to visit my husband’s grave and was shocked to find a boy sitting there. When he looked up, I got the fright of my life — the boy looked exactly like my late husband at that age! He ran when I asked who he was, but I soon met him again.
The cemetery was quiet that afternoon, just wind stirring the oak trees and the smell of damp, dead leaves.
Four months; that’s how long I’d avoided this place. I’d buried Tom at the beginning of Summer, and hadn’t been back until now.
Resentment.
Just thinking about it made me ashamed, but I couldn’t help the way I felt.
Tom and I had tried for years to be parents, but he’d given up long before I finally let that dream go.
He’d made that choice for both of us, really, when he refused to try another round of IVF. He’d suggested adoption, but I couldn’t bring myself to try it.
All these unresolved issues felt fresh again after he passed. I hadn’t had the strength to face his grave, but I wanted to get over it now.
Tom was a good man and a good husband.
He deserved to have fresh flowers on his grave.
As I drew closer to Tom’s grave, I spotted something strange.
I scanned the rows of graves, but there was nobody else around, just me and this boy.
“Are you lost?” I called out, keeping my voice gentle.
He lifted his head, and it felt like someone had knocked the breath right out of me.
The line of his jaw, the shape of his nose, his eyes, and even the lock of hair sticking up at his crown…
“Who are you?” I stumbled closer.
“What… what are you doing here? Where did you come from?”
The boy’s eyes widened. He leaped to his feet and bolted.
“Come back here!” I called out.
He didn’t even look back.
I half-thought I’d imagined it, but when I approached Tom’s grave, the grass was still flattened where the boy had been sitting. There was a small bunch of wildflowers on the headstone.
I placed the vase of roses I’d brought for Tom’s grave right in front of it and stood there, staring at the name carved into granite.
The wind picked up, sending a chill down my neck.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing that boy’s face, kept trying to tell myself it was grief playing tricks on me.
But I couldn’t let it go.
I returned the next day, and the day after that, every day for a week.
The cemetery stayed empty except for the groundskeepers and the occasional mourner, who nodded politely and moved on.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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