I wasn’t sure if I was losing my mind or if something darker haunted me. After visiting Winter’s grave, I returned home to find the same bouquet of white roses I had placed there sitting in my kitchen. Five years had passed since her death, yet the pain felt fresh, especially as our daughter, Eliza, now 18, carried her mother’s absence like a silent shadow.

When I called to Eliza, she met me with indifference. I left for the cemetery, my heart heavy. The florist knew my usual order, and memories of Winter flooded back—her laughter during our first date when I’d nervously bought her flowers.

At Winter’s grave, I knelt and whispered, “I miss you.” As I stood to leave, a chill ran through me; something felt different. Upon returning home, my heart raced when I saw the roses again—impossibly identical to those I had just left.

“Did you bring these?” I asked Eliza when she came downstairs. She shook her head, confusion in her eyes. I rushed back to the cemetery, but the grave was bare—no sign of the flowers.

Back home, we stood over the roses, searching for answers. Suddenly, I noticed a folded note beneath the vase—Winter’s handwriting: “I know the truth, and I forgive you.”

As I revealed the secret I had buried, Eliza admitted she had known all along. The roses, once symbols of love, became a haunting reminder of the deceit that had torn us apart.