For six months, I observed it from my car.
The same day.
At the same time.
Every Saturday, at exactly two o'clock in the afternoon, he would arrive at the cemetery on his Harley, park near the old oak tree, and walk straight to Emily's grave.
Then he would sit by her grave for a whole hour.
She never brought flowers.
He never left a note.
He never spoke loudly enough for me to hear him.
She simply sat cross-legged on the grass, her head bowed, as if she were carrying a pain too heavy to bear.
The first time I saw him, I thought he had made a mistake.
It was a large cemetery. It was easy to mistake the graves for one another.
But he returned the following Saturday.
And the next one.
And one last one.
Week after week, this stranger mourned my wife as if she belonged to him too.
At first, I was confused.
So I got angry.
Who was he?
How did he know Emily?
Why did this man come every week when some members of his own family almost never came?
Emily had died fourteen months earlier from breast cancer.
He was only forty-three years old.
We had been married for twenty years.
Two children.
A peaceful home.
