I wasn’t sure if I was losing my mind or if something more sinister was at play. After returning from the cemetery where I had just visited my wife Winter’s grave, I was stunned to find the flowers I had placed there earlier sitting in a crystal vase in my kitchen. It had been five years since I buried Winter, and during that time, I had buried my guilt alongside her. But now, the past seemed to be clawing its way back into my life in an inexplicable and unsettling way.
Grief, no matter how much time passes, never truly leaves. The pain of losing Winter still felt as fresh as the day it happened. Our daughter, Eliza, was only 13 when Winter died, and now, at 18, she bore the weight of that absence in her quiet, reflective manner. She carried the ghost of her mother with her—unseen, but always present.
A Tradition That Felt More Burdensome Each Year
I stared at the calendar, where I had circled the date once again. Another year had gone by, and Winter’s anniversary was quickly approaching. It made the pit in my stomach deepen as I called out to Eliza.
“I’m heading to the cemetery, dear,” I told her.
Eliza appeared in the doorway, her face devoid of emotion. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”
I nodded, unable to express everything I felt in that moment. What was there to say? That I missed her mother just as much as she did? Instead, I grabbed my keys, and the silence between us stretched uncomfortably as I left the house. It was a ritual now, one I went through mechanically, without much thought, but this time felt different. The weight of grief seemed heavier this year.
A Familiar Stop with Unfamiliar Feelings
The florist’s shop was as bright and fragrant as ever, but as I walked through the door, a heaviness seemed to settle over me. The florist looked up, her expression sympathetic.
“The usual, Mr. Ben?” she asked, already knowing what I would ask for.
“Yes, white roses. Just like always,” I replied, my voice a little more strained than usual.
As she wrapped the bouquet, my mind drifted back to the first time I had bought Winter flowers. It was our third date, and I had been so nervous that I nearly dropped the roses. Winter had laughed and said, “Ben, you’re adorable when you’re flustered.” That memory, full of warmth and love, was so vivid that it almost made the loss feel even sharper.
The florist handed me the bouquet. “Here you go, Mr. Ben. I’m sure she’d love them.”
I nodded quietly, accepting the flowers. “Thanks. I hope so.”
A Grave Visit That Felt Familiar Yet Strange
The cemetery was as quiet as ever, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. As I walked toward Winter’s grave, each step felt like a weight pressing on me. The black marble headstone loomed ahead, her name shining in gold, a stark contrast against the fading light.
I knelt and placed the roses at the base of the stone, my fingers tracing the familiar letters of her name. “I miss you, Winter. God, I miss you so much,” I whispered.
For a moment, the wind picked up, sending a shiver down my spine. I couldn’t help but imagine that it was her touch, some kind of message from beyond. But the thought quickly faded, replaced by the cold, undeniable reality that she was gone and that no amount of wishing could bring her back.
“I’ll be back next year, love. I promise,” I said softly before standing up and brushing the dirt from my knees. As I turned to walk away, a strange feeling lingered in the air, but I pushed it aside, chalking it up to my overwhelming grief.
A Baffling Return
When I returned home, the house was unusually quiet. That’s when I saw them—the same roses I had just placed at Winter’s grave, now sitting in a crystal vase on my kitchen table. My heart began to race as I walked toward them, my hands trembling as I reached out to touch the petals. They were impossibly real, exactly the same as the ones I had left at the cemetery.
“What the hell? Eliza!” I called out, panic rising in my chest. “Eliza, are you here?”
I turned around to see Eliza standing in the doorway, her expression full of confusion. “What’s wrong, Dad?” she asked.
I pointed at the vase, my voice shaking. “Where did these roses come from, Eliza? Did you bring them home?”
She shook her head, clearly as baffled as I was. “No, I’ve been out with friends. I just got back. What’s going on?”
“These are the exact same roses I left at your mother’s grave,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “How is that possible?”
Eliza’s face turned pale as she examined the flowers, disbelief in her eyes. “That’s not possible, Dad. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” I replied, my heart racing. “I need to go back to the cemetery. Now.”
A Return to the Cemetery and an Unsettling Discovery
The drive back to the cemetery was filled with a silence so thick that it felt suffocating. My mind raced through all the possibilities. Had someone followed me? Was I losing my mind? Or had I somehow imagined leaving the flowers in the first place?
Eliza insisted on coming with me, but the drive felt like it lasted hours. The silence between us was heavy, each of us lost in our own thoughts. When we finally arrived at Winter’s grave, I felt my heart drop. The spot where I had left the roses was completely empty. There were no flowers, no sign that I had even been there. The ground was undisturbed, as though I had never visited at all.
A sense of dread washed over me. What was going on? Where had the flowers gone? The questions spiraled in my mind, but no answers came. It was as if the entire encounter had been a strange, unexplainable illusion, one that left me questioning everything I knew about reality.
