11/16/2025
For weeks, the roses I left on my wife’s grave kept disappearing. Every Sunday I placed seven crimson roses—her favorite—carefully wrapped in paper. But by Tuesday… gone. Not wilted. Not blown away. Just gone, like someone had taken them with care.
I thought maybe the groundskeepers tossed them early. Or animals carried them off. But every other grave still had old, half-dead flowers drooping in their vases. Only hers was stripped bare.
So I bought a small trail camera—the kind hunters use—and tucked it deep in the hedges behind her headstone, facing the marble. I didn’t tell a soul. I just waited for answers.
For two days, nothing. Then on the third afternoon, while reviewing the footage, I nearly spilled my coffee.
A boy—maybe eleven, thin, wearing an oversized hoodie—approached her grave. He glanced around, then gently gathered every rose. Not ripping. Not stealing. Holding them like they were precious.
The next day, he returned. Not to take anything—just to sit cross-legged in front of her stone, the roses in his lap. He stayed exactly twenty-three minutes, silent the whole time.
I zoomed in on the footage… his face tugged at something in my memory.
And then I saw what was hanging around his neck. ⬇🫢 check in comm:For weeks, the roses I left on my wife’s grave kept disappearing. Every Sunday I placed seven crimson roses—her favorite—carefully wrapped in paper. But by Tuesday… gone. Not wilted. Not blown away. Just gone, like someone had taken them with care.
I thought maybe the groundskeepers tossed them early. Or animals carried them off. But every other grave still had old, half-dead flowers drooping in their vases. Only hers was stripped bare.
So I bought a small trail camera—the kind hunters use—and tucked it deep in the hedges behind her headstone, facing the marble. I didn’t tell a soul. I just waited for answers.
For two days, nothing. Then on the third afternoon, while reviewing the footage, I nearly spilled my coffee.
A boy—maybe eleven, thin, wearing an oversized hoodie—approached her grave. He glanced around, then gently gathered every rose. Not ripping. Not stealing. Holding them like they were precious.
The next day, he returned. Not to take anything—just to sit cross-legged in front of her stone, the roses in his lap. He stayed exactly twenty-three minutes, silent the whole time.
I zoomed in on the footage… his face tugged at something in my memory.
And then I saw what was hanging around his neck. 🫢 check in comm:😳👇💬
