After her husband’s death, every weekend the woman came to the cemetery: she cleaned the grave, pulled weeds, and laid fresh flowers.
One morning, arriving at the site, she noticed something strange. Near her husband’s grave stood a stranger in her forties. The woman was gently brushing the grave, placing her hand on the photo as if apologizing.
The widow, upset, didn’t dare approach and kept her distance to observe. A year passed without seeing the visitor again. On her husband’s birthday, she returned to the cemetery and saw her once more.
— Excuse me… did you know my husband?
The widow thought she recognized in her the mistress of her late husband, but the truth far exceeded her worst fears.
The stranger turned around. Her eyes revealed both anxiety and infinite gentleness.
— Yes. Forgive me if I disturb you. I… I couldn’t help myself.
— Who are you? the widow whispered. — Were you close to him?
The woman’s voice trembled. She took a crumpled piece of paper from her bag and handed it to the stranger.
— I was driving the car. That very one. When… it happened.
The world seemed to wobble. The widow was silent, the paper trembling in her hand. It was the official expert report: everything was confirmed. She remembered that at the time, no one was held truly responsible.
— You’ve been coming here all this time? she finally asked.
— Yes. Often. Sometimes at night. I didn’t expect your forgiveness.
The widow slowly approached the grave.
— He was stubborn. I begged him a thousand times not to cut through…
She turned to the stranger.
— Leave. Her tone remained calm. — Not because I hate you, but because he would never have forgiven me to see you suffer like this forever.
The stranger wanted to speak, changed her mind, nodded, and walked away without looking back.
