Mrs. Bell smiled the second she saw me. “White roses, Tom?”
“With lilies and lavender, Mrs. Bell. Same as always.”
She tied the bouquet with cream ribbon. I had given Evelyn those exact flowers the day I proposed, back when we still believed forever was something love alone could protect.
“You never miss a Sunday,” Mrs. Bell said softly.
“I made my wife a promise.”
Then I drove away with one of Evelyn’s favorite songs playing quietly through the Mustang’s speakers.
At the cemetery, I carried the flowers through light gray rain. Her headstone glistened wet, her name darker beneath the drizzle. I touched the carved letters with two fingers.
“I still miss you, darling. Every room in that house feels too quiet without you.”
I stayed longer than usual that morning. I told Evelyn Anna had been acting strange lately. That the gutters needed cleaning. And that I still couldn’t make decent coffee inside the blue mug she liked because somehow it always tasted worse in mine.
Then the rain grew heavier. I promised I’d return next Sunday and stopped for Anna’s favorite donuts on the drive home.
That was the last normal Sunday I would ever have.
The driveway shimmered slick with rain when I pulled in.
“Brought your favorite, Annie,” I called out.
Anna was already standing in the hallway. Not painting. Not sitting on the couch. Just standing there like she had been listening for the sound of my engine. Her face was white in a way that told me this wasn’t nerves or moodiness.
“You’re back early,” she said.
“Rain picked up. Your mother would’ve fussed if I came home soaked.”
She didn’t smile.
And she was blocking the kitchen.
“Anna… move,” I said slowly. “I’m thirsty.”
“Dad, maybe sit down first.”
She didn’t move, so I stepped around her.
The second I entered the kitchen, I froze.
Sitting on the table was the exact same vase I had left at the cemetery. The same white roses. The same lilies. The same lavender. Even the cream ribbon still looked damp from the rain.
I stared at it.
Then I looked back at Anna.
