When she came back that Friday, the sight made her stomach tighten. There was a fresh bouquet. The flowers faced the other way. The soil, freshly raked, bore faint half-moons of small fingertips. She pulled out her phone, comparing the photo. “Someone’s been here,” she whispered, the wind swallowing her voice.
The following afternoon, Ellen brought a small notecard and a pen from home. After placing fresh flowers, she bent over the vase and wrote carefully, Who are you? The words looked absurd on paper, yet necessary. She folded the note twice and tucked it beneath a flower’s stem before leaving.