For Weeks His Roses Vanished From His Wife’s Grave—So He Installed A Camera And Discovered Something That Changed Everything

I made it a Sunday ritual to bring crimson flowers. Like she liked, she was always seven and always wrapped in paper. By Tuesday, though? Lost. Gone, not withered. No trace, no petals, no stems.

I initially believed that they might have been thrown early by the grounds maintenance. Or perhaps animals.

But the same thing happens every week. Half-dead flowers and faded lilies still rotted in their containers at other graves. Hers was the only one naked.

I therefore purchased a little camera. For deer, hunters employ the kind. I pointed directly at the marble and stuck it deep in the shrubs behind her headstone. I kept it a secret. Simply wait.

Nothing during the first two days. Then, while watching the video on the third afternoon, I almost lost my coffee.

A boy. Eleven, perhaps. thin. He can’t fit into the hoodie. About 3:30 p.m., he slipped up, surveyed the area, and carefully picked each rose. One by one. He didn’t tear them. He treated them as though they were important.

He returned the following day. Just to sit, not to take more. facing the stone with their legs crossed. He spent twenty-three minutes there. I tallied. He remained silent. The roses were in his lap as he sat there.

I enlarged the frame. I couldn’t place his face, yet it seemed strangely familiar.

until I noticed the object dangling around his neck.

A locket made of silver. oval in form. Scratched. However, I was aware of that. On our twentieth anniversary, I got it for Malini. On the back, there was a small engraving. My initials in Tamil writing, together with hers.

I felt sick to my stomach.

She couldn’t have it. Hers was interred with hers. Even after the clasp broke and I had to repair it with fishing line, she continued to wear it every day for thirty-two years. With it on, I watched as they lowered her into the earth.

How did the boy get it, then?

I stopped watching and just looked.

After that, I got my keys and headed directly to the cemetery.

For hours, I waited for a ghost while sitting on the bench across from her grave.

And there he was at 3:34 p.m.

The same sweatshirt. The same uneasy stroll. slender legs showing through shorts that are too tiny for the fall. Today, he was holding something close to his chest that appeared to be a notebook.

I remained silent. I simply allowed him to get close to her grave. He knelt next to it and caressed the stone’s edge lightly, as if it were skin. The notebook was then opened by him.

He began reading aloud. Gently.

It took me a minute to understand what was being said. However, my heart struck my ribs as soon as I did.

One of my poems was being read by him.

It had been years since I had composed a poem, since before Malini became ill. However, she had a whole collection on her bedside table. Things I scrawled back when I believed I would succeed as a professional writer.

I inhaled and got to my feet. My knees groped. Age has made the bench harder.

“Hey,” I murmured.

He gave a deer-like start. He appeared to be about to run away.

“I’m not angry,” I hastily added. “I just noticed that you were reading.”

He gripped the notebook more tightly. I apologize. I had no idea anyone else had visited this place.

“Are you familiar with her?” I gave the grave a nod.

He paused. “In a way.”

It hurt. “A little bit?”

She told me things. I mean, I converse with her. She helps, but I’m not sure if she hears me.

“She?”

He gave a nod. The woman wearing the crimson gown. When I first arrived, she was present. This is a safe area, she assured me while sitting on that bench. that I could speak here.

My knees gave way. I was forced to sit.

“Dress in red?” I inquired. “You mean you had a conversation with a woman here?”

Indeed. Only once, though. She had crimson bangles and a large braid. similar to those in Bollywood films.

Malini’s favorite dress was that one. When we last danced, it was at our niece’s wedding, and she was wearing it. The way the skirt flared out like a movie star made me giggle as I recalled how she had spun about in it.

However, this youngster was incapable of knowing that.

“Son, what is your name?” I inquired.

“Reza,” he said.

“Reza what?”

He paused once more. “Imtiaz Reza.”

Then all of a sudden it clicked.

Imtiaz.

Malini’s former school district coworker had the last name. A generous woman who would often bring samosas and playlists of soothing music when she visited during Malini’s chemotherapy days.

Every now and then, she would bring her young grandson, a quiet little boy with big eyes who never spoke.

I said, “Your grandmother.” “Mina?”

Slowly, he nodded.

I exhaled. The pieces began to fit together.

“Have you been stealing the roses?” I inquired.

He appeared embarrassed. Only because it was OK, according to her. The woman wearing the crimson gown.

I gazed at him.

He went on, “She said they were from someone who loved her very much.” “I could borrow them,” she said. that they were intended for a person in need of affection.

My throat then became constricted.

Take out a loan. Don’t take. Take out a loan.

“How do you handle them?” I inquired.

He declared, “I take them to the hospital.” “To my mother. She has been ill. I’m not allowed to bring in too much, but wrapped flowers are acceptable.

I had to turn my head away.

This young person wasn’t stealing. He was attempting to instill hope in someone.

For a while, we sat in silence.

“Now, where is your mother?” Finally, I asked.

“Recovering yet. She will be alright, they say. But for a while, it was frightening.

“I apologize.”

He gave a nod. “Talking here was beneficial. I had the impression that she was listening even when she wasn’t there.

The wind increased. On the headstone, a parched leaf scuffed.

I took my phone out and went to my picture album.

I showed him a photo of Malini at the beach with her hair flying and a big smile, and I remarked, “This was her.”

He grinned. That’s her. That is the woman.

My hands became icy.

He was telling the truth. He was unable to be.

“How was the locket obtained?” With a weak voice, I asked.

“Oh,” he replied. One day, it was beneath the bench. I believed it was gone, yet I’m not sure. It seemed to be for me.

I kept the locket’s burial a secret from him. Perhaps some things don’t require an explanation.

I told him something else instead.

“You would have been liked by her. She used to say that children who have calm hearts become individuals who can move mountains.

He gave a hesitant smile. “She told me something similar as well.”

There, we struck a bargain.

I used to bring two bunches of flowers every Sunday. For Malini, one. For Reza’s mother, one. knotted with string and wrapped in the same brown paper.

And we would get together every Sunday at 3:30. Take a seat. Go ahead and read. Recall.

It became something we did.

His mother was discharged from the hospital by December. She once visited the graveyard, taking deep breaths and walking slowly. Despite my silence, she expressed her gratitude for the flowers. simply grinned and nodded.

Reza gave me a folded piece of paper one day.

A verse. His own.

It was not ostentatious. However, it was genuine.

The final words, “She told me love doesn’t end / It just finds new places to land,” stayed with me.

After he drove off, I sobbed in my car.

Reza ceased visiting on a regular basis, but I continued to deliver the roses. He relocated across town. His mother recovered. However, he occasionally wrote to me. He also placed a rose on Malini’s tomb on each of her birthdays.

I didn’t see him do it. However, I recognized him.

What about the locket?

I gave it to him.

Not everything should be buried.

There are some things that are made to last.

You don’t always get what you expect in life. But occasionally, it gives you back a bit of what you believed you had lost in the most unexpected places.

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