Returning from the cemetery, I was struck by a feeling of something amiss. I had left flowers at my wife’s grave, only to find them again in a vase in my kitchen. It had been five years since I laid Winter to rest, yet it felt as if the past refused to let me go.

The burden of grief never really fades. It’s been half a decade since Winter’s passing, and yet the sorrow feels as raw as ever. Our daughter, Eliza, was only 13 then. Now, at 18, she lives with the quiet void of her mother’s absence.

The anniversary of Winter’s death approached, and the marked date on the calendar seemed to taunt me. I called to Eliza, my voice carrying the weight of the past five years.

“I’m heading to the cemetery, dear.”

Eliza appeared in the doorway, her eyes masked with indifference. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”

A simple nod was all I could muster. Apologies or expressions of mourning felt inadequate. I picked up my keys, accepting the solitude that grew between us.

The florist shop greeted me with its usual palette of colors and scents. As I approached the counter, my steps felt ominously heavy.

“The usual, Mr. Ben?” asked the florist with a knowing smile.

“White roses. As always.”

As the bouquet was prepared, my mind drifted back to my early days with Winter. I remembered the first time I gave her flowers, so nervous that I almost dropped them. Winter’s laughter and her endearing comment about my flustered state crept into my thoughts, filling me with nostalgic sorrow.

The florist handed me the roses. “Here you go, Mr. Ben. I’m sure she’d love them.”

With the roses in hand, I headed for the cemetery. It was a quiet place, with only the rustle of leaves for company. I made my way to Winter’s grave, each step weighed down with emotion.

On reaching her headstone, its black marble and gold lettering seemed to shine solemnly in the sunlight. I knelt and placed the roses gently at its base, tracing Winter’s name with my fingers. The pangs of grief struck sharply as I whispered, “I miss you, Winter. So very much.”

A breeze chilled the air, almost as if it carried her comforting touch. But reality soon returned, reminding me that Winter was truly gone.

I rose on my feet, promising to visit next year as the roses lay quietly by her side. Despite my departure, an eerie feeling lingered. I dismissed it as the familiar tricks grief played.

Returning home, the silence inside the house was almost deafening. I headed to the kitchen, craving coffee.

And there they were.

The roses sat in a crystal vase on the kitchen table, as if they’d never been at the grave. My heart pounded as I moved closer, fingers trembling. Real, tangible, and impossibly similar, there stood my tribute to Winter.

“Eliza!” I shouted. “Eliza, come here!”

Eliza appeared, her eyes widening at my distressed state. “What’s wrong, Dad? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I pointed to the vase. “Where did these roses come from? Did you bring these here?”

She shook her head, genuine confusion in her eyes. “No, Dad. I was with friends. What’s the matter?”

Taking a deep breath, I leaned against the table. “These roses… they’re the ones I left at your mother’s grave. How can they be here?”

Eliza’s face grew pale as she glanced between the flowers and me. “That’s impossible, Dad.”

“I need to go back to the cemetery. Now.”

The drive was a blur, my mind racing with implausible theories. Had someone tricked me? Was my mind betraying me?

Eliza insisted on accompanying me, though the car was silent and heavy with tension.

At Winter’s resting place, dismay hit me. The spot where the roses once lay was bare, untouched as if they’d never been there.

“They’re gone. This isn’t possible,” I murmured.

Eliza knelt beside the empty ground. “Are you sure you left them here, Dad? Maybe you forgot—”

I was adamant. “No, I left them here, without a doubt.”

Eliza helped me to my feet. “Let’s go home, Dad. We need to figure this out.”

At the house, the roses remained, stark reminders of an unsettling mystery. Eliza joined me across the table, a silent confrontation with both flowers and feelings.

“This can’t be real, Eliza. Maybe… maybe your mom is trying to tell us something.”

I almost laughed at the absurdity. “Your mother is gone, Eliza. She doesn’t send messages from beyond.”

Eliza gestured adamantly. “Then explain this! Because I’m at a loss for logical explanations.”

Conflicted, I raked a hand through my hair. “I don’t know, Eliza! None of this makes sense!”

But there—under the vase—was a folded note I hadn’t noticed before. I reached for it, disbelief prickling at my spine.

“What’s that, Dad?”

Opening it, the sight of Winter’s handwriting brought my world to a standstill. “I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time for you to face what you’ve hidden.”

The room spun around me, forcing me to steady myself against the table. “No, this isn’t real—”

Eliza snatched the letter from my hands, her expression hardening. “What truth, Dad? What have you been hiding?”

The long-buried secrets, coupled with years of guilt, swept over me. I sank into a chair, unable to face her.

“Eliza, the night your mother died… it wasn’t an accident.”

An intake of breath from Eliza sounded shrilly in the silence. “What do you mean?”

I forced myself to meet her gaze, seeing Winter’s pain reflected there. “We fought that night. She found out I’d been unfaithful.”

“An affair?” Eliza queried, her voice ice-cold.

I nodded, consumed by regret. “Yes, a grievous mistake. I didn’t intend for things to go as they did. But Winter found out before I could end it. She left in a rage, and then…”

“And then she was gone,” Eliza finished for me.

“For years, I told no one,” I confessed. “I couldn’t bear the shame for them to know it was my fault.”

A long silence stretched between us, Eliza’s gaze piercing through the roses. When she spoke, her tone was measured.

“I knew, Dad.”

My mind reeled. “You knew?”

Eliza nodded, her voice low. “Mom told me that night. I read her diary afterward. I’ve known for a long time.”

“You knew? Then the roses and the note, they were your doing?”

Eliza’s admission landed heavily. “I followed you and retrieved the flowers. I wanted you to understand the betrayal. I copied Mom’s handwriting for the note. The truth had to come out.”

“But why now?”

Eliza’s gaze swept to the wall calendar. “Five years, I watched you mourn publicly while I bore your secret. I couldn’t keep silent any longer.”

“Eliza, I—”

“Mom forgave you, she said so in her journal. But I’m not sure I can,” she interrupted, her words cutting deep.

She left me there, in silence with the flowers. Roses that had once meant love and now symbolized the deceit that fractured our family.

I reached for a petal, understanding at last that some wounds just linger until the truth exposes them to light.