THE RITUAL THAT NEVER CHANGED
For almost a year, every Sunday morning looked the same.
Anna would wake before sunrise, cut a small bouquet of simple flowers, and gently take her six-year-old daughter’s hand.
They would walk the same route: a quiet street, an alley lined with tall poplars whispering in the wind, and finally the old iron gates of the cemetery.
The house they left behind felt too large now. Too quiet.
Ever since Anna buried her husband, silence had settled into the walls like dust that refused to be wiped away.
Her daughter had stopped asking when Daddy was coming home.
Now she only squeezed her mother’s hand tighter.
THE BREAD
A few months after the funeral, Anna noticed something small.
Before every visit, her daughter would slip pieces of bread into her coat pocket.
If there wasn’t any at home, she would insist they stop at the store.
Anna assumed it was harmless.
“She wants to feed the birds,” she thought.
But the cemetery was strangely empty of birds.
No pigeons. No sparrows.
And yet, every week, the bread disappeared from her daughter’s pocket.
NOT JUST ONE GRAVE
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