I was starting to question my own sanity. It felt like a dark shadow was following me. When I got back from the cemetery, something strange awaited me in the kitchen: the flowers I’d placed on my wife Winter’s grave were somehow in a vase on the table. It had been five years since she passed away, yet the past clawed its way back, refusing to stay buried with her.
Grief doesn’t just fade away. Even after all this time, the pain of losing Winter still felt as fresh as the day it happened. Our daughter, Eliza, was just thirteen when we lost her. Now, at eighteen, she had become a young woman, carrying her mother’s absence like a heavy shadow.
The calendar seemed to mock me, marking yet another year without her. I felt my stomach twist into knots as I turned to Eliza.
“I’m going to the cemetery, honey,” I called out.
Eliza appeared, her gaze blank. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”
I nodded, but the words wouldn’t come. What could I say? That I missed her mother more than anything? That I felt sorry for everything? I let the silence hang between us as I walked out the door.
The florist’s shop smelled just like I remembered. As I approached the counter, I whispered, “White roses. Just like always.”
As the florist wrapped the bouquet, a memory flashed through my mind. It was my first gift to Winter. I could still hear her laughter as I nervously fumbled with the flowers, trying to impress her.
“She’d love them, Mr. Ben,” the florist said gently, sensing my mood.
Each step toward Winter’s grave felt heavier than the last. The black marble headstone shimmered under the sun, her name etched in gold. I knelt down, placing the roses carefully beside her resting place.
“I miss you so much, Winter. God, I miss you,” I whispered, my voice choked with emotion.
A sudden chill swept through the air, and for a brief moment, I thought I could feel her touch. But I knew she was gone. No matter how hard I wished, I couldn’t bring her back.
Once back home, I sought comfort in a cup of coffee, hoping it would settle my racing heart. As I stepped into the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks. There, impossibly, was the bouquet of roses I had just left at Winter’s grave, standing in a crystal vase I didn’t even recognize.
My heart raced, pounding in my chest. “Eliza!” I shouted, my voice trembling. “Eliza, are you here?”
Moments later, she appeared, her eyes widening as she noticed my distress.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” she asked, concern creeping into her voice.
“Where did these roses come from? Did you put them here?” I demanded, pointing to the vase.
She shook her head, confusion etched on her face. “No. I’ve been out with friends. What’s going on?”
Taking a deep breath, I explained, “I left these roses at your mother’s grave.”
Eliza’s face drained of color. “That’s impossible, Dad.”
We rushed back to the cemetery, my heart pounding in my chest. Winter’s grave was bare; the roses I had laid down earlier were gone. I knelt, staring at the spot where they had been.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, defeated. “I left them right here.”
“Let’s go home, Dad,” Eliza said softly, her hand on my shoulder.
Back in the kitchen, the roses still stood, as if they had never left. We faced each other, the flowers sitting between us like a wall.
“Dad,” Eliza said hesitantly, “maybe Mom is trying to tell us something.”
I let out a bitter laugh, my heart heavy. “Your mother is gone, Eliza. Dead people don’t send messages.”
“Then what is this?” she challenged, gesturing at the vase. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”
That’s when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. A small, folded piece of paper was tucked underneath the vase. My hands trembled as I reached for it.
I unfolded the note, my heart racing as I recognized the handwriting—Winter’s. “I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time you face what you’ve hidden.”
The room seemed to spin, and I gripped the table, struggling to process what I’d just read. Eliza’s expression twisted with anger and betrayal.
“What truth, Dad?” she demanded, her voice rising. “What have you hidden?”
I sank into a chair, the weight of my secret crashing down on me. “Your mother… that night she died… it wasn’t just an accident.”
Eliza gasped, her eyes wide. “What do you mean?”
“We’d had an argument that night,” I confessed, my voice breaking. “She found out about my affair. She was furious, hurt. She stormed out in anger… and she never came back.”
Eliza was silent, her gaze fixed on the roses, her expression unreadable. “I knew, Dad. I’ve known for years.”
Shock gripped me. “You… knew?”
She nodded, her face 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.”
The realization hit me like a punch. “The roses? The note? Was it you?”
She didn’t flinch, her expression cold. “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 these years?” I asked, tears threatening to spill.
“Because I couldn’t watch you pretend any longer,” she replied, her voice icy. “Mom might have forgiven you, but I don’t know if I can.”
With those words, she turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the roses—once a symbol of love, now a haunting reminder of betrayal. As I traced a soft white petal, I understood that some wounds never heal. They wait, hidden, until the truth forces them into the light.
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