I wasn’t sure if I was losing my mind or if something darker haunted me. After visiting my wife’s grave, the same flowers I’d left there were waiting for me in the kitchen. Five years had passed since I buried Winter—and my guilt—but the past was clawing back.

Grief never lifts. Our daughter Eliza was just 13 when Winter died; now 18, she carries that absence like a silent shadow. As the anniversary neared, I told her I was heading to the cemetery. She appeared, eyes cold, saying, “It’s that time again, isn’t it, Dad?”

At the florist, I bought white roses—Winter’s favorite. At the grave, I laid them down, whispering how much I missed her. But returning home, the same roses were inexplicably on the kitchen table. My heart raced. Eliza denied bringing them in. Confused and frightened, I insisted we return to the cemetery.

At the grave, the flowers were gone. Back home, a note tucked under the vase bore Winter’s handwriting: “I know the truth and forgive you. Face what you’ve hidden.” Eliza revealed she’d known all along about my affair, the fight that led to Winter’s death. The flowers and note were her doing—forcing me to confront a truth I’d buried too long. Some wounds never heal; they only wait for the light.