At the cemetery, workers directed me to a quieter entrance. I followed the familiar gravel path, carrying my flowers and memories.
Then I saw it.
A black canvas bag lay beside Paul’s headstone. My heart tightened. I thought it was rubbish, but the bag was carefully zipped, its handles tucked away. There was no note, no name, nothing to explain why it was there.
I called out. Silence answered.
After contacting the cemetery office, I was told to leave it untouched until someone arrived. I knew I should have waited. But something about that bag felt deeply personal.
I knelt beside Paul’s grave, my hands trembling. The bag was strangely dry, despite the rain the night before.
I placed my yellow flowers against his headstone and slowly reached for the zipper.
The moment I looked inside, my breath caught.
My knees buckled, and I collapsed beside the grave, overwhelmed by what I had found.
