She crouched beside it, fingers tracing the water-warped paper. The silence around her felt different now. It was not peaceful, but deliberate, as if the cemetery itself were holding its breath. “So that’s it then,” she whispered. “Whoever you were, you’re gone.” The words felt like an admission she didn’t want to make.
Two weeks later, on a gray morning, she returned only out of habit. Her steps slowed when she saw it—a tiny toy car, blue and shiny, resting beside the vase. It hadn’t been there before. Her note was gone. But it was apparent that there was to be no answer.