“I can drive you,” she said gently.
“Thank you, but I need to be alone,” I replied.
I stopped for coffee and bought my usual flowers. When the florist asked whether I’d like a card, I quietly answered, “No. He knows they’re from me.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
At the cemetery, workers directed me to a quieter entrance. I followed the familiar gravel path, carrying my flowers and memories.
Then I saw it.
A black canvas bag lay beside Paul’s headstone. My heart tightened. I thought it was rubbish, but the bag was carefully zipped, its handles tucked away. There was no note, no name, nothing to explain why it was there.
I called out. Silence answered.
After contacting the cemetery office, I was told to leave it untouched until someone arrived. I knew I should have waited. But something about that bag felt deeply personal.
