Haunted by Grief or Something Darker?

I wasn’t sure if I was losing my mind—or if something more sinister was at play. When I came back from the cemetery, the white roses I’d placed on my wife’s grave were sitting in a vase on the kitchen table.

For five years, I tried to bury my grief and guilt. But now, it felt as though the past was clawing its way back into my life.

A Family Worn by Loss

Grief’s weight never fully lifts. Even after five years, the pain of losing Winter, my wife, feels raw. Eliza, our daughter, was only 13 when we lost her mother. Now 18, she carries that loss like a shadow, silent but ever-present.

A Ritual of Remembrance

The circled date on the calendar mocked me. Another year had passed, and another anniversary loomed.

“I’m going to the cemetery,” I called to Eliza.

From the doorway, she replied, her voice detached. “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”

I simply nodded, grabbing my keys. There was nothing left to say.

Flowers for Winter

The florist’s shop was a burst of color and fragrance, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my chest.

“White roses, as usual,” I murmured to the florist.

As she wrapped the bouquet, a memory surfaced—Winter’s laugh on our third date, her teasing smile when I nervously handed her flowers.

Back in the cemetery, I placed the roses gently at her grave. Her name shimmered in the weak sunlight, etched in gold on the black marble.

“I miss you,” I whispered, my fingers tracing her name. The wind’s chill felt like her touch, but reality set in quickly. Winter was gone, and nothing could bring her back.

The Impossible Roses

Back home, I walked into the kitchen, still lost in thought—until I saw the roses.

There they were, the same ones I had just left at the grave. Dew still clung to their petals, and a crystal vase I didn’t recognize held them.

“Eliza!” I called, my voice trembling.

She appeared, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

“These roses,” I said, pointing at the vase. “They’re from the grave. Did you bring them here?”

Eliza shook her head, her face pale. “No, I didn’t.”

A Chilling Discovery

The drive back to the cemetery was a blur. When we arrived, the grave was empty—no roses, no sign I had been there.

Back home, the roses still sat on the table, defying logic. Underneath the vase, I found a folded note. The handwriting sent chills down my spine.

It was Winter’s.

A Family Torn Apart

The note read: I know the truth, and I forgive you. But it’s time for you to face what you’ve hidden.

Eliza read it and turned to me, her voice steady but cold. “What truth, Dad?”

With nowhere left to hide, I confessed. The night Winter died, we’d had a fight. She had discovered my affair. Hurt and furious, she stormed out and never came back.

Eliza’s Revelation

“I already knew,” Eliza said, her voice sharp. “Mom told me everything that night. I found her diary after she died.”

My heart sank. “The roses? The note? It was you?”

Her eyes blazed. “I needed you to admit it. I wanted you to feel the pain she felt.”

A Painful Reckoning

Eliza’s words cut deep. “Mom forgave you,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I don’t know if I can.”

As she walked away, I was left alone with the roses—a haunting reminder that no truth stays buried forever. Some wounds only heal when the truth is finally brought into the light.