And yet, every Saturday, this man came. No flowers. No talking. Just stillness. I told myself maybe he had the wrong grave—but after six months of the same ritual, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
The Day I Approached Him
After three months, I finally got out of my car. My hands were shaking. He heard me walking up but didn’t turn around. Just kept his hand resting on the stone.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly. “I’m Sarah’s husband. Can I ask who you are?”
He stood slowly—tall, broad, tattoos down both arms—but his eyes were red. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just needed to say thank you.”
