I mourned my wife, Winter, for five years, visiting her grave every anniversary with white roses. But this year something strange happened — when I returned home, the same bouquet I’d left at her grave was sitting in a vase on my kitchen table. My daughter, Eliza, insisted she hadn’t brought them in, but when we went back to the cemetery, the flowers were gone. My heart raced as I found a note tucked beneath the vase — in Winter’s handwriting.
