I was starting to lose my grip on reality. A darker presence felt like it was lingering around me. When I returned from the cemetery, I was shocked to find the flowers I had placed on my wife Winter’s grave waiting for me in a vase in the kitchen. Five years had passed since she left this world, but the past seemed determined to claw its way back into my life.
Grief is a heavy burden. Though five years have gone by since I lost Winter, the ache in my heart feels as raw as ever. Our daughter, Eliza, was only thirteen at the time. Now, at eighteen, she navigates her young adulthood with her mother’s absence trailing behind her like a dark cloud.
The calendar reminded me painfully of the years passing by, and I felt a twist of anxiety as I prepared to tell Eliza where I was going.
“I’m heading to the cemetery, honey,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
Eliza walked in, her expression blank. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”
I nodded, but my throat tightened. What could I possibly say? That I missed her mother more than I could bear? That I felt guilty for not being enough? I let the silence hang heavy in the air as I stepped out.
Walking into the florist’s shop, the familiar scent of flowers washed over me. “White roses, just like always,” I murmured, almost to myself.
The florist wrapped the bouquet with care, and suddenly, a vivid memory flashed in my mind—my first bouquet for Winter. I could still hear her laughter ringing in my ears as I fumbled nervously with the flowers, hoping to make a good impression.
“She’d love them, Mr. Ben,” the florist said softly, noticing the sadness in my eyes.
As I made my way to Winter’s grave, every step felt like it carried the weight of my sorrow. The black marble headstone gleamed in the sunlight, her name shining in gold. I knelt, placing the roses gently beside her.
“I miss you so much, Winter. It hurts to be without you,” I whispered, my heart aching.
Just then, a chilling breeze swept past me, and for a brief moment, I thought I could feel her spirit near. But I shook my head. She was gone, and no amount of longing could bring her back.
Back home, I tried to find solace in a cup of coffee, hoping to calm my racing thoughts. As I entered the kitchen, I froze. There, standing in a crystal vase, were the very roses I had just left at Winter’s grave, looking fresh and alive.
My heart raced, a mix of fear and disbelief flooding my mind. “Eliza!” I shouted, my voice shaking. “Eliza, can you come here?”
She appeared moments later, her eyes widening with concern as she took in my frantic state.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” she asked, stepping closer.
“Where did these roses come from? Did you put them here?” I asked, my voice rising with urgency.
She shook her head, confusion evident on her face. “No! I’ve been out with friends. What’s going on?”
Taking a deep breath, I explained, “These roses… I left them at your mother’s grave.”
Eliza’s expression shifted to one of alarm. “That’s impossible, Dad.”
We hurried back to the cemetery, my heart racing with dread. When we arrived, I knelt at Winter’s grave, my heart sinking. The spot where I had placed the roses was empty.
“I don’t get it,” I whispered, overwhelmed with confusion. “I left them right here.”
“Let’s go home, Dad,” Eliza urged, her voice gentle as she touched my shoulder.
Back in the kitchen, the roses stood proudly in the vase, as if they had never left. Eliza and I faced each other, the flowers separating us like an invisible wall.
“Dad,” Eliza said cautiously, “maybe Mom is trying to tell us something.”
I let out a bitter laugh, my heart heavy with disbelief. “Your mother is gone, Eliza. Dead people don’t send messages.”
“Then what is this?” she challenged, gesturing at the vase. “I can’t explain it any other way.”
That’s when I noticed something hidden beneath the vase. A small, folded piece of paper caught my eye. My hands shook as I reached for it.
I unfolded the note, and my heart stopped. It was in Winter’s handwriting. “I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time you face what you’ve hidden.”
The room spun around me as I tried to make sense of it all. Eliza’s face twisted with anger and betrayal.
“What truth, Dad?” she demanded, her voice trembling. “What have you been hiding?”
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 with shock. “What do you mean?”
“We had a terrible argument that night,” I admitted, my voice breaking. “She found out I had been unfaithful. She was furious, heartbroken. She stormed out in anger… and she never came back.”
Eliza fell silent, her gaze fixed on the roses, her expression unreadable. “I knew, Dad. I’ve known for years.”
The shock rooted me to the ground. “You… knew?”
She nodded, her face hardening with resolve. “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 tidal wave. “The roses? The note? Was it you?”
She didn’t flinch, her eyes cold. “I took the roses from her grave and left the note in her handwriting. I wanted you to feel the weight of what she felt that night.”
“Why now, after all this time?” I asked, tears spilling over.
“Because I couldn’t stand by and watch you pretend anymore,” she replied, her voice like ice. “Mom might have forgiven you, but I don’t know if I can.”
With those final words, she turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the roses—once symbols of love, now haunting reminders of betrayal. As I traced a soft white petal, I realized that some wounds never fully heal; they merely wait for the truth to bring them into the light.
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