I found myself questioning whether I was succumbing to madness or if a more sinister presence was pursuing me. Upon my return from the cemetery, I discovered the flowers I had placed on my wife’s grave had reappeared in the vase in the kitchen. Although I had buried both my wife and my guilt five years prior, it seemed as though the past was relentlessly resurfacing.
The burden of grief is a weight that never fully dissipates. Five years have elapsed since I lost my wife, Winter, yet the anguish remains as poignant as ever. Our daughter, Eliza, was merely 13 at the time of the tragedy. Now at 18, she has matured into a young woman who bears the absence of her mother like an unspoken shadow.
I gazed at the calendar, the circled date taunting me. Another year has passed, and yet another anniversary looms ahead. The unease in my stomach intensified as I called out to Eliza.
“I’m heading to the cemetery, dear.”
Eliza stood in the doorway, her expression shrouded in indifference. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”
I nodded, at a loss for words. What could I possibly express? That I felt regret? That I too longed for her mother? Instead, I took my keys and walked out, allowing the silence to envelop the space between us.
The florist’s shop greeted me with a vibrant array of colors and scents. I made my way to the counter, my steps burdened with weight.
“The usual, Mr. Ben?” the florist inquired, her smile tinged with sympathy.
“White roses. Just like always.”
As she carefully arranged the bouquet, I was reminded of the first occasion I purchased Winter flowers. It was during our third date, and my nerves had almost caused me to drop them.
She had laughed, her eyes shining, and remarked, “Ben, you’re quite charming when you’re flustered.”
The recollection slipped away as the florist presented me with the roses. “Here you are, Mr. Ben. I am certain she will appreciate them.”
“Thanks. I hope so.”
The cemetery was serene, interrupted only by the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. I approached Winter’s grave, each step growing increasingly burdensome.
The black marble headstone emerged before me, her name inscribed in golden letters that appeared to glisten in the faint sunlight.
I knelt down and delicately set the roses against the stone. A sharp wave of sorrow surged through me as my fingers glided over 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.
But the cold reality settled in quickly. She was gone, and no amount of wishing would bring her back.
I stood up, brushing dirt from my knees. “I’ll be back next year, love. I promise.”
As I departed, an unsettling sense of change lingered in my mind. However, I dismissed the notion, attributing it to the persistent grief that often clouded my thoughts.
Upon my return, the house was enveloped in silence. I made my way to the kitchen, yearning for a robust cup of coffee.
That’s when I saw them.
On the kitchen table, in a crystal vase I didn’t recognize, stood the same roses I had just left at Winter’s grave.
My heart raced, beating so intensely that I could hear it in my ears. I moved forward unsteadily, my hands trembling as I extended them to touch the petals. They felt tangible, astonishingly tangible.
“What on earth? Eliza!” I shouted, my voice reverberating through the vacant house. “Eliza, are you present?”
I pivoted, my gaze fixed on the roses. They were identical to the ones I had purchased, bearing the same subtle flaws and the same droplets of dew clinging to the petals.
It was impossible.
“This can’t be happening,” I whispered, backing away from the table. “This can’t be real.”
I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at those impossible roses. The sound of footsteps snapped me out of my trance.
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
I turned to see Eliza standing on the staircase, her eyes widening as she took in my pale face.
“What’s going on, Dad? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I gestured towards the vase, my hand trembling. “Eliza, where did these roses originate? Did you bring them home?”
She shook her head, her expression one of bewilderment. “No, I was out with friends. I just returned. What’s the matter?”
I inhaled deeply, attempting to calm my voice. “These are precisely the same roses I placed at your mother’s grave. Identical, Eliza. How can this be?”
Eliza’s complexion drained, her gaze shifting between me and the flowers. “That can’t be true, Dad. Are you certain?”
“I am certain. I must return to the cemetery. Immediately.”
The drive back to the cemetery was a blur. My mind raced with possibilities, each more unlikely than the last.
Had someone followed me? Had I imagined leaving the flowers earlier? Was I losing my mind?
Eliza was adamant about coming with me, but the ride was filled with an uncomfortable silence.
As we approached Winter’s grave, my heart sank. The spot where I’d carefully placed the roses was empty. No flowers and no sign that I’d been there at all.
“They’re gone. How can they be gone?”
Eliza knelt down, running her hand over the bare ground. “Dad, are you sure you left them here? Maybe you forgot—”
I vigorously shook my head. “No, I am quite certain. I set them down right here just a few hours ago.”
She rose to her feet, her gaze locking onto mine.
“Let us return home, Dad. We must resolve this matter.”
Upon arriving at the house, the roses remained on the kitchen table. Eliza and I positioned ourselves on either side, the flowers acting as a dividing line between us.
“There has to be an explanation, Dad. Maybe Mom is trying to tell us something.”
I laughed. “Your mother is dead, Eliza. Dead people don’t send messages.”
“Then how do you explain this?” she shot back, gesturing at the roses. “Because I’m running out of logical explanations.”
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration and fear bubbling inside me. “I don’t know, Eliza! I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not… it can’t be…”
My voice trailed off as I noticed something tucked under the vase. A small, folded piece of paper I hadn’t seen before. With trembling hands, I reached for it.
“What is it, Dad?”
I unfolded the note, my heart stopping as I recognized the handwriting. Winter’s handwriting.
“I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time for you to face what you’ve hidden.”
The room whirled around me, and I clutched the table’s edge to regain my balance. “This cannot be happening—” I murmured.
Eliza seized the note from my grasp, her expression shifting to one of shock as she perused its contents. “Dad, what truth are you referring to? What have you kept from me?”
The burden of five years filled with deception and remorse overwhelmed me. I collapsed into a chair, unable to face Eliza’s gaze.
“Your mother,” I began, my voice cracking. “The night she died… it wasn’t just an accident.”
Eliza’s sharp intake of breath cut through the silence. “What do you mean?”
I forced myself to look at her and face the pain in her eyes. “We had a fight that night. A big one. She found out I’d been having an affair.”
“An affair? You cheated on Mom?”
I nodded, shame burning in my chest. “It was a mistake, dear. A terrible mistake. I tried to end it, but your mother found out before I could. She was so angry and hurt. She stormed out of the house, got in the car—”
“And never came back,” Eliza finished, her voice cold.
“I never told anyone,” I continued, the words pouring out now. “I couldn’t bear for people to know the truth. To know that her death was my fault.”
Eliza was silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the roses. When she finally spoke, her voice was eerily calm.
“I knew, Dad!”
My head snapped up, disbelief engulfing me. “What do you mean, you knew?”
Eliza’s gaze locked with mine, revealing a depth of pain and anger that had accumulated over the years.
“I’ve known for years, Dad. Mom told me everything before she left that night. I found her diary after she died. I’ve known all along.”
“You’ve known? All this time?”
She nodded, her jaw clenched. “I wanted you to admit it. I needed to hear you say it.”
Realization dawned on me, cold and horrifying. “The roses and the note? It was you?”
I accompanied you to the cemetery and removed the flowers from our mother’s grave. My intention was for you to experience the sense of betrayal and pain she endured. I imitated her handwriting and attached this note to the flowers, as I wished to convey that the truth cannot be concealed indefinitely.
“Why now? After all these years?”
Eliza’s eyes flicked to the calendar on the wall.
“Five years, Dad. Five years of watching you play the grieving widower while I carried the weight of your secret. I couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Eliza, I—”
Eliza interrupted me, her voice piercing my heart as she stated, “Mother has forgiven you; she noted it in her diary. However, I am uncertain if I can do the same.”
With that, she turned and exited the kitchen, leaving me solitary with the roses—once a symbol of affection, now a foreboding reminder of the betrayal that had fractured our family.
I extended my hand to caress a delicate white petal, coming to the realization that certain wounds remain unhealed. They linger, concealed beneath the surface, until the truth compels them to emerge.