It started like every other visit to my father’s grave—flowers in hand, the familiar crunch of gravel underfoot. The late-summer light was caught between gold and gray, a warm breeze stirring the dry leaves. For a moment, the place felt calm, almost welcoming. But as I turned down the last row toward his headstone, something shifted. My stomach clenched, a ripple of unease breaking the quiet.
That’s when I saw it—something unexpected, placed right there on top of the stone. I stopped in my tracks…
I’ve been visiting my father’s grave for almost twelve years now. Usually it’s the same quiet ritual: buy flowers, walk the narrow gravel path between the rows of headstones, and just… talk to him.
It’s my little way of keeping him close.
But yesterday was different.