11/28/2025
My wife, Lydia, had been gone for five years, and yet I still woke every morning reaching for the empty side of the bed as though instinct rather than memory guided my hand. I would turn, see the untouched pillow, and feel the familiar crack tighten through my chest. Some wounds simply learned to hide under the skin.
Our daughter, Mara, was only thirteen when we lost her mother. She’s eighteen now, older in ways that had nothing to do with age, her gaze steadier than it should be for someone barely stepping into adulthood.
She learned to carry her sorrow quietly, with the kind of composure only children of loss seem to understand. She didn’t talk about Lydia often, but now and then I caught a flicker in her eyes, a drop of grief she never shared aloud.
On the morning of the anniversary, the calendar on the kitchen wall stared back at me. I had circled the date in red the year after she d.i.3.d, thinking it might help me remember something important. I never erased it. I couldn’t. It felt wrong to pretend the day was like any other.
I grabbed my keys. “I’m heading to the cemetery, Mara.”
She stood in the doorway, her arms folded loosely, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I figured.”
Her voice carried neither judgment nor surprise, just a tired understanding. She knew this ritual. She’d watched me repeat it year after year, always alone. She never asked to come with me, and I never asked her to. Some silences between us felt too fragile to touch.
I slipped on my coat and stepped outside, letting the cold morning air press against my cheeks. My car engine hummed softly as I drove into town, stopping at the small florist shop on Oak Street. The bell chimed as I entered, filling the room with warm, fragrant air tinged with roses, lilies, and something sweet I couldn’t name.
The florist—Mrs. Waverly, a woman with silver hair and kind eyes, looked up from arranging a bouquet. “Morning, Mr. Rowan,” she said softly. “The usual?”
I nodded. “White garden roses.”
She wrapped them gently in tissue paper as I stood there, watching her hands work with practiced care. A memory rose without permission: Lydia on our third date, laughing as I stumbled over my words while trying to hand her a bouquet I’d bought with the little money I had. She’d taken the flowers, kissed my cheek, and teased, “You’re charming when you’re nervous, Caleb.”
I swallowed hard, blinking away the memory before it could sting more deeply.
When the florist handed me the bouquet, I offered a quiet thank-you and left.
The cemetery was silent except for the occasional rustle of wind brushing the trees. I walked the familiar gravel path toward Lydia’s grave—a polished stone of deep gray granite, carved with her name: Lydia Mae Rowan. Kneeling, I placed the roses at the base of the headstone. The petals fluttered slightly as the wind whispered across them.
“Hi, Lyd,” I murmured. My voice felt strange, like it belonged to someone older than I remembered being. “Another year.”
My fingers traced her name, the grooves smooth beneath my touch. “I miss you. I don’t think that’ll ever change.”
The wind brushed my cheek with a cold whisper, the kind of touch that made people imagine meaning where there was none. Still, for a fleeting moment, I let myself pretend it was her—a gentle reminder rather than a coincidence.
“I’ll be back next year,” I said quietly. “I always will.”
I stood slowly, brushing dirt from my jeans, and walked back toward my car with a familiar heaviness. But something inside me felt… unsettled. I couldn’t name why.
When I returned home, the house was still. I walked to the kitchen, thinking only of making a pot of coffee. Instead, I stopped dead in the doorway.
On the kitchen table stood a vase of white garden roses.
Fresh. Full. Perfect.
The exact bouquet I had placed on Lydia’s grave less than an hour earlier.
Same number of roses. Same pale blush on the outer petals. Same tiny brown spot marking the edge of one petal on the left. Even the same faint dew lingering at the center of the blooms—as though they had been lifted directly from the earth and placed delicately on my table.
My hands shook as I stepped forward. “What in the world…”
I reached out to touch the petals. They were soft, cool, unmistakably real.
A tremor ran down my spine. “Mara!”
She didn’t answer. “Mara!”
Footsteps shuffled down the stairs. She appeared in the doorway, her expression puzzled. “What’s going on?”
I pointed at the vase. “Did you put these here?”
She frowned. “No. I just got home. Why?”
My pulse hammered. “Because these are the roses I put on your mother’s grave. These exact roses.”
She blinked, confused. “Dad… maybe you—”
“I didn’t forget!” My voice cracked. “I placed them at the headstone myself.”
The kitchen seemed to spin around me. Logic flickered desperately, seeking an explanation.
I grabbed my keys again. “Get in the car. We’re going back.”
The drive to the cemetery was a blur of panic and disbelief. Mara sat in silence beside me, occasionally glancing my way but saying nothing.
When we arrived, I nearly stumbled out of the car... (READ THE FULL STORY in the 1st comment)
