I wasn’t sure if I was losing my mind or if something darker was haunting me. When I returned from the cemetery, the flowers I placed on my wife’s grave were waiting for me in the kitchen vase. I’d buried my wife and my guilt five years ago, but it felt like the past was clawing its way back to me.
The weight of grief never truly lifts.
It’s been five years since I lost my wife, Winter, but the pain still feels fresh.
Our daughter, Eliza, was just 13 when it happened. Now 18, she’s grown into a young woman who carries her mother’s absence like a silent shadow.
I stared at the calendar, the circled date mocking me.
Another year has gone by, and another anniversary was approaching. The pit in my stomach deepened as I called out to Eliza.
“I’m heading to the cemetery, dear.”
Eliza appeared in the doorway, indifference cloaking her eyes.
“It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”
I nodded, unable to find the words.
What could I say? That I was sorry? That I missed her mother too?
Instead, I grabbed my keys and headed out, leaving the silence to fill the space between us.
The florist’s shop was a burst of color and fragrance.
I approached the counter, my steps heavy.
“The usual, Mr. Ben?” the florist asked, her smile sympathetic.
“White roses.
Just like always.”
As she wrapped the bouquet, I couldn’t help but remember the first time I’d bought Winter flowers. It was our third date, and I’d been so nervous I’d nearly dropped them.
She’d laughed, her eyes sparkling, and said, “Ben, you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
The memory faded as the florist handed me the roses.
“Here you go, Mr.
Ben. I’m sure she’d love them.”
“Thanks. I hope so.”
The cemetery was quiet, save for the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
I made my way to Winter’s grave, each step feeling heavier than the last.
The black marble headstone came into view, her name etched in gold letters that seemed to shimmer in the weak sunlight.
I knelt and placed the roses carefully against the stone.
A pang of grief pierced my chest as my fingers traced the letters of her name.
“I miss you, Winter. God, I miss you so much.”
The wind picked up, sending a chill down my spine.
For a moment, I could almost imagine it was her touch, her way of telling me she was still here.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
