Every Sunday, I brought seven crimson roses to my wife Malini’s grave. I wrapped them carefully in the paper she loved, as if she might return to touch them. It was my way of keeping her memory alive, honoring the love we had shared.
But by Tuesday, the flowers were always gone. Not wilted, not blown away by the wind. They simply vanished. The other graves nearby were cluttered with rotting bouquets, yet hers remained bare.
Curiosity gnawed at me. Who could be taking the roses, and why? I decided to find out. I hid a small camera behind Malini’s headstone, its lens aimed at the spot where the flowers rested.
Days went by. I watched, patient, as life at the cemetery continued—visitors passing, wind rustling leaves—but nothing unusual appeared at first. I began to worry that I might never solve the mystery.
Then, on the third afternoon, I saw him: a thin boy, perhaps eleven years old. He approached quietly, as if not to disturb anyone. With careful hands, he plucked each rose from Malini’s grave.
He handled them gently, almost reverently. It was clear he treated the flowers with love and respect, not theft. I was confused. Why would a boy take roses from a grave?
The next day, he returned again. This time, he didn’t take anything. Instead, he sat cross-legged by Malini’s headstone, roses resting in his lap, staring softly at the earth beneath her name.
Then I noticed something that stopped me cold: the silver locket around his neck. The very same one I had buried with Malini. My heartbeat quickened. How could he possibly have it?
I approached the cemetery myself and waited quietly. At 3:34 p.m., the boy appeared again. This time, he carried a small notebook and began reading softly. To my astonishment, the words were one of my old poems, the ones I had written for Malini.
When I spoke to him, he froze, wide-eyed. “She told me this was a safe place,” he said in a whisper. “The lady in the red dress.” My heart skipped a beat. Malini’s favorite dress had been red.
The boy introduced himself as Reza. He explained that Malini had comforted him once, long ago, and had told him that he could come here to speak and be heard. He hadn’t been stealing the roses at all.
Instead, he had been taking them to his sick mother in the hospital. “She said the flowers were for someone who needed love,” he explained, eyes wide with honesty. He had been sharing hope, not committing theft.
I was overwhelmed. The roses I thought were stolen had been given to someone else who needed them, guided by the memory and love of Malini herself. My grief turned into a quiet, warm awe.
From that day on, we began meeting every Sunday. I brought two bundles of roses—one for Malini’s grave, and one for his mother. The boy and I shared stories, laughter, and quiet remembrance.
Weeks passed, and by December, Reza’s mother recovered. The hospital visits were no longer necessary, and a sense of closure came with each Sunday visit to the cemetery.
Before moving away, Reza gave me a small poem, folded carefully. It read: “Love doesn’t end / It just finds new places to land.” The words stayed with me, comforting and profound.
I let him keep the silver locket. It belonged to him now, a reminder of the kindness and connection Malini had inspired even after her death.
Some things aren’t meant to stay buried. Love, memories, and hope find ways to move, grow, and live on. Through Reza, I realized that Malini’s love was still reaching the world.
Even now, I bring roses every Sunday, remembering her, Reza, and the extraordinary way love continues beyond life itself. Some acts, small and quiet, carry more power than we can ever imagine.