Exactly five years had passed since the day I lost my husband. I still can’t believe he’s gone. It all happened so foolishly and suddenly that sometimes it feels like it was just a nightmare.That evening, it was pouring rain. The lights in the house flickered and then went out completely. He came back from the store with a bag of groceries, stepped onto the porch, and the tiles were wet and slippery. I heard a dull thud. When I ran outside, he was already lying unconscious on the steps. The ambulance arrived quickly, but the doctors said he had suffered a severe head injury from the fall. He died that same night.Everyone decided it was an accident. Rain, slippery steps, darkness. No one suspected anything.

The first few years after his death, I lived like I was on autopilot. I woke up, pretended everything was normal, and went back to sleep with a hollow feeling inside. The only thing I kept like a relic was a small yellow flower he had planted for me in a white pot. I placed it in the garden by the walkway and cared for it as if my memory depended on it.That day was warm and quiet. I decided to repot the flower with fresh soil. I picked up the pot, but it slipped from my hands and shattered against the tile. The soil scattered across the path. I knelt down to gather it with my hands and suddenly noticed something pale deep inside.A small bundle of fabric, neatly tied with a thin black thread.My heart pounded so hard that my ears rang. My husband had given me that pot shortly before he died. I was sure I knew him completely. He never hid anything from me. Or so I thought.