Lena spent every Sunday at the same bench in the cemetery, leaving a single red rose… even though she never told anyone who it was for.
But this time, someone was already sitting there — a boy, maybe 9 years old, holding the same kind of rose.
She hesitated.
“Is this your spot?” he asked gently.
She nodded.
“My mom says this is where my real dad is buried,” he said, looking at her. “But I never met him.”
Lena sat down slowly.
She couldn’t speak. Her hands were shaking.
Because that was the grave of her fiancé… who died before she even knew she was pregnant.
And now, sitting beside her, was the son he never got to meet.
The wind stirred gently through the trees, rustling the leaves like whispers from another world.
Lena stared at the boy — his eyes, his crooked smile. It was like seeing a ghost, but softer… warmer.
The boy held out the rose. “I bring one every year on his birthday. Mom says he liked simple things.”
Lena swallowed hard. Her voice barely made it out:
“He did. He hated store-bought bouquets… but always picked the reddest ones from the garden.”
The boy blinked. “You knew him?”
She nodded, her fingers clutching the rose in her lap.
“I was going to marry him,” she whispered. “But he… never came home from the accident. And I… didn’t know I was going to be a mother.”
The boy tilted his head. “So… that means you’re…”
Lena finally turned to him fully. “I think I’m your aunt.”
His eyes widened. “For real?”
She smiled through the tears. “For real.”
He paused. “Does that mean I look like him?”
Lena laughed softly — the first time in years. “You are him. In so many ways.”
They sat together in silence, two roses resting now at the grave.
For the first time in nine years, Lena didn’t feel alone on that bench. The grief hadn’t vanished — but something else had bloomed in its place.
Hope.
