He never brought flowers. Never talked to anyone. Just sat there in quiet reflection. And every time he left, he placed his palm gently on the headstone before walking back to his bike.
At first, I assumed he had the wrong grave. The cemetery’s big; mistakes happen. But he kept coming back, week after week, unwavering.
Then something inside me started to twist — anger, confusion, jealousy. Who was this man? Why was he mourning my wife with more consistency than some of her own family?
