Every Saturday at exactly two in the afternoon, I noticed the same man arrive on a motorcycle and walk straight to my wife Sarah’s grave. At first, I tried to convince myself it was coincidence, but he returned week after week, sitting beside her headstone with a reverence that unsettled me. He never brought flowers or spoke a word—just sat cross-legged in silence, head bowed, as if grieving someone he deeply loved. Fourteen months had passed since cancer took Sarah from us, yet this stranger mourned her with a devotion I didn’t understand. Finally, confusion and jealousy burned into questions...
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